


Slumber Alee

by Order_Of_The_Forks



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Drinking, I Mean Slow Burn, Injury, M/M, Poisoning, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, Stabbing, also kataang are married get punkd zutara shippers, baby lin beifong uwu, i heard sokka died fighting the red lotus and ran with it, too much politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:22:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 50,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28744677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Order_Of_The_Forks/pseuds/Order_Of_The_Forks
Summary: Here’s the worst thing about dying: in all the books Sokka’s read- mysteries, romances, historical sagas, Fire Nation propaganda, it doesn’t matter- when the hero’s life is threatened, they gracefully pass out, only to wake on a nice fluffy bed so that a side character can explain what happened and the plan for going forward.As Sokka comes to find out, this is absolute ostrichhorseshit.(In which Sokka gets stabbed and life goes on, though the sands of time are slowly running out.)
Relationships: Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 39
Kudos: 88





	1. Sokka I

_Only in sleep I see their faces,_  
_Children I played with when I was a child_  
_\- Only In Sleep, Sara Teasdale_

Here’s the worst thing about dying: in all the books Sokka’s read- mysteries, romances, historical sagas, Fire Nation propaganda, it doesn’t matter- when the hero’s life is threatened, they gracefully pass out, only to wake on a nice fluffy bed so that a side character can explain what happened and the plan for going forward.

As Sokka comes to find out, this is absolute ostrichhorseshit. From the moment that knife lodges itself in his flesh he’s awake, and he stays awake until that night, when it’s the appropriate time to sleep.

He stays awake throughout the aftermath of the fight, Zuko hastily bandaging him up, them mounting Druk, who’s barely grown enough to support two riders, the calling of the palace healers, the precarious lowering of himself onto the nearest bed in the servants quarters. He stays awake enough to think clearly about how much the rickety bed hurts his back, how unfair it is that none of the four healers that come to poke and prod at him will tell him what exactly is going on, and how absolutely disgusting the tea that’s supposed to help him with the fever he’s apparently experiencing tastes. 

And, okay. He’s not _dying_. But it sure as hell felt like it. If the universe hates Sokka enough to literally stab him in the back, the least he deserves is the right to be dramatic about it. So for the sake of accuracy, that’s the worst part about _being stabbed_. Staying awake through it all.

It isn’t until he’s again transported painfully and awkwardly into his own bed in the wing for visiting dignitaries and given a bland dinner of porridge and bread that he begins to feel tired. It was a long day of fighting and being stabbed, and as the moon dips below the horizon he feels as though it’s alright to drift off into sleep. Maybe when he wakes up he’ll be in a novel, and someone will be by his bedside to discuss everything. 

Sokka dreams about Yue for the first time in years. It’s more of a nightmare, really; it’s not at all comforting, not like a dream should be. He dreams about her up in the sky, lonely and homesick. Missing her favorite foods from the mortal world. Missing her friends. He listens as she tells him stories from her life, joyful tales of parties and misadventures and friends that all have a mournful tone, up there in the sky. Sokka’s up there with her. He thinks he might be a star. 

She’s still beautiful, but she looks different than he remembered her. Her nose was a little bit wider, her jaw was a little bit softer. Her hair was parted in the middle, not to the side. The beads in her braids were the light blue of the daylit sky, not the stormy blue of the ocean. Although Sokka can picture here clearly in his waking hours, it’s as if his subconscious has forgotten key aspects of her face, filling them in with memories of women past. Gran-Gran’s eyes, mother’s mouth, Suki’s chin. 

She tells him not to be afraid, that it’s not so bad in the sky. It won’t be bad once he joins her, then she won’t be as lonely as she has been. The sun spirit is rude, she says. You won’t like him. And Sokka tries to explain that he’s not going to join her in the sky, that he has no reason to become one of the many stars hovering around her, but she doesn’t seem to hear him. Every time Sokka speaks the wind picks up, rushing through the trees far below them and obscuring his voice. Every time Sokka speaks Yue looks at him with a fond sort of pity and regales him with a tale of mirth from her human days, like the time she called a visiting ambassador ‘dad’ by accident.

As the sun begins to peek above the horizon Yue looks at him and sighs. She tells him it was nice to speak with him again, that it is awfully lonely up there in the sky all alone. She asks if he’ll come visit her again soon. Sokka assures her he will. 

When he wakes up, the sun has fully blossomed in his room, painting the world a gentle gold. In the streams of light by his window he can see dust floating in the air like stars in the night sky, and he tries to remember his dream. He remembers Yue was there. He remembers he was a star.

It’s empty and quiet, and for once there isn’t the familiar distant noise of cooking in the palace kitchens the floor below or the guards talking in a gruff hum outside his door. It’s completely silent. Sokka moves to sit up and get out of bed, as he does every morning, but an earth-shattering pain in his side prevents him from doing so. 

That’s when the events of the day before come rushing back to him. Fighting the Red Lotus, winning. Getting stabbed. Zaheer making the mistake that ended the battle: thinking Sokka was down for the count with a knife lodged in his side. Watching his boomerang land its target on Zaheer’s head, watching the blood start to pour over his eye as he falls to the ground, watching Zuko rush forward to restrain him and haul him off with the rest of the incapacitated members of the Red Lotus. Mud on Sokka’s face, mud in his mouth when he opens it to call for help. Zuko’s hands on his stomach, clumsily bandaging his side. The odd, watery echo of his voice. The peaceful calm as they soared through the air back towards the Caldera, when all the pain seemed to disappear and all Sokka could focus on was the spots of black encroaching on the corners of his vision. The awful jolt back to reality as he was moved and hustled through the palace, yet Zuko was there the whole time, keeping him upright and fretting over his injury.

More worried than Sokka, he remembers.

He’s still not worried, even now. People have been through worse than a simple stabbing. And the palace healer said they hadn’t even hit anything vital, so he’s sure that as soon as his wound heals he’ll be up and running like normal. 

He remembers when he broke his leg, the last day of the war. It hurt like a bitch for a month or so, but he’s good as new now. He’s a fighter, that’s what dad always said, and he’s been through worse. For all he knows, he’ll go through worse after this, too. Trouble seems to seek him out.

What is worrying, though, is the absolute silence in the palace around him. Zuko has told him that during Ozai’s reign, his childhood home was always quiet. The servants were kept silent out of fear, as were the children of visiting nobles, playing wordlessly in the palace gardens. 

After the war, though, the royal palace has become a hub of energy; ambassadors and various dignitaries are frequent visitors, and their mouths are no longer kept shut for fear of punishment. When Sokka wanders the halls, he says hello to everyone and they greet him back, from the Firelord himself to the lowliest servant. He likes being known, and he likes the way each person he passes lights up when they see him, eager to tell a story or hear a new joke.

It makes him feel wanted, you know?

It’s not like he has a reason to feel out of place in the palace, but it’s hard not to. It’s so damn _hot_ all the time, and there are so many etiquette rules that he never learned. It’s nicer when he’s serving as Councilman in Republic City, where there’s not yet a set environment to be ostracized from. It’s brand new, a free-for-all. The Fire Nation is steeped in tradition, tradition that Sokka had never even _heard_ of until he was well into his teens. 

All at once a memory comes back to him, one from when he was, what, seventeen? The war had ended only a few years before, and the Fire Nation was hosting the very first Four Nations Banquet, or better known as the Party Where Nobles Act Stuffy and The Teenage War Heroes Can Get Drunk. Sokka remembers vividly Zuko awkwardly broaching the topic of dance at breakfast one morning; Aang only knew Fire Nation dances from a century before, Toph only knew Earth Kingdom dances, and Sokka and Katara were just clueless. So every night, for weeks at a time, after meetings and public addresses and land redistributions, they met in the repurposed Agni Kai arena and Zuko taught them to dance. It should’ve been torture, Sokka muses, but it had been fun. He looks back on it fondly, laughing as they stepped on each other's toes and turned over the wrong shoulder, keeping time by counting under their breath, the grand room empty of music but echoing with the sounds of their mirth and shuffling feet. 

The door creaks open.

Sokka knows he should escape his reverie, but he doesn’t want to. It’s been a long time since he’s thought of those dance lessons, if they could even be called such, and he wants to keep it in mind as long as he can, lest he forget them for another decade. 

He’s long since memorized the footfalls of everyone in the palace, and the distinct shuffle of heavy boots means it’s Zuko. “Remember when you taught us to dance? Before the first banquet?” Sokka looks up at Zuko, who’s holding a tray of tea and looking both worried and perplexed.

“I do.” He puts down the tea set on the table by Sokka’s bedside and sits next to him, the mattress dipping with the extra weight. “Why are you thinking about dancing?”

“I’m not sure,” Sokka admits. “Just… thinking.” 

“Well, think about this,” Zuko segues, pouring a cup of tea for Sokka. He’s always admired how easily Zuko handles tea, which is sort of a given considering his brief employment at a tea shop in Ba Sing Se, back when they thought Zuko was evil. But that doesn’t stop Sokka from marveling at how perfectly he’s able to get exactly the right amount into the cup, how he can top it off with a flick of his wrist, not spilling a drop. For someone who claims tea is nothing more than ‘hot leaf juice,’ he certainly knows his way around it. “Sokka?” He looks up, breaks his eyes away from Zuko’s hands. There’s a cup being held in front of him. How long has that been there? Sokka takes it, clasps his hands around the warm porcelain. “I’ve written to the others about your, uh, injury. Toph will be here by nightfall, and Katara might take until tomorrow afternoon. Suki can’t come, she’s busy with the Kyoshi Warriors, Aang says he wishes he could come, but he’s- hold on, he sent me a message.” 

Zuko pulls a sheet of paper from somewhere within his robes and unfolds it, clearing his throat in that characteristically awkward way. “He says, ‘Sokka, I’m really sorry I can’t come see you. I’m also sorry about the stabbing. I’m overseeing a peace treaty between two neighboring towns. Apparently they’ve been fighting over territory for seventy years! I don’t know how long this’ll take (these people sure are stubborn) but I’ll come to see you as soon as I can. I miss you! Give Katara my best when you see her-‘ what, nothing for me?” Zuko interrupts himself. “Whatever. ‘And make sure the others don’t give you a hard time. Wishing you the best, Aang.”

Sokka takes a sip of his tea. He can’t place exactly what it is, but it tastes good. “That’s sweet. Why did you call everyone back here? You didn’t have to do that.”

“You got _stabbed_ , Sokka,” Zuko says, as if that clears everything up.

“So? Any of us could’ve gotten stabbed. It’s not really an uncommon crime.”

Zuko clenches his jaw. “Yes, and we would’ve done the same for any of them. When a friend gets hurt, you go see them.”

“Is that how that works?” Sokka muses. “I didn’t know you were the expert on friendships, Firelord.”

“Now you’re just being annoying on purpose,” Zuko says, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t give in to it. 

“Maybe so.” Sokka takes another sip of tea to hide his own grin. “I mean, you’re just _so_ difficult to rile up.”

“I’ll be sure to let the healer know that your sarcasm wasn’t affected.” 

Sokka nods gravely. “If there ever comes a point where I can’t even manage sarcasm, just take me out. Like a lame ostrichhorse.”

Zuko rolls his eyes and picks up his own cup of tea, and taking a sip, uses his index finger to stir it once, twice, until fresh steam rises from the cup. “Speaking of death and injuries,” he says casually, “how are you faring?” Zuko seems, outwardly, a picture of calm, but they’ve known each other since they were teenagers and Sokka knows better than anyone that he always taps his fingers against his leg when he’s worried, just like he’s doing now. 

“I’m fine.” Zuko doesn’t look convinced. Sokka leans forward, enough to make his side feel like it’s being split straight down the middle, and lays his hand atop of Zuko’s, stilling it. “I’m _fine_. Hurts like nobody’s business, but it’s fine. Nothing I can’t handle.” He lifts his free arm and flexes, taking pride in the way Zuko’s eyebrows twitch. “I’m tough, remember?”

“You’re tough,” Zuko repeats distantly. “One of the palace healers will be here in a few minutes to change your bandages and check your healing. I can…”

“Sure, stick around,” Sokka answers. It’s been a long time that he’s been able to anticipate Zuko’s questions, he’s not going to stop now. “Finish your tea. This is delicious, by the way.”

“It’s a special blend of Uncle’s,” he explains, looking relieved to be off the subject of healers and wounds. “He just sent it over from Ba Sing Se. He didn’t tell me what it was made of, though. I have a feeling he’s vying for a secret recipe, he’s always wanted one.”

“Well if this is his secret recipe, he’s got business in the bag.” Sokka takes one last sip, feeling the dregs of loose tea leaves coarse and dry against his tongue. He presses them against the backs of his teeth and tries to pretend they aren’t there. When he’s alone, he’ll drink water and spit them out, but he doesn’t want to break the gentle peace that’s been spun, the faint chill of the morning breeze, the silence of the palace. He considers asking why it’s so quiet, but decides against it. It was probably one of Zuko’s stupid ideas, giving the staff the week off so Sokka could rest and heal. And if Sokka asked, he would get embarrassed and defensive and the temporary ease that lies over both of them would be gone.

But despite Sokka’s best efforts, that calm is inevitably shattered by a gentle knock at the door, as if the person on the other side doesn’t know if Sokka is awake or not. “Come in,” he says, and the door creaks open for the second time that morning.

“Good morning, Councilman,” he begins, and hastily bows when he sees Zuko at the bed. “Oh! Firelord, I didn’t know you were here.”

“Good morning,” Zuko says simply, before getting up and moving to a small red armchair on the opposite side of the bed. “I’ll stay here, if that’s alright.” 

The healer bows his head and pulls up the wooden stool by the vanity up to Sokka’s bedside and sits, opening a bag of medical supplies. Some of them look very intimidating. “How are you feeling this morning, Councilman?”

“I feel fine,” Sokka answers honestly. “And please, just call me Sokka. Everyone does.”

The healer looks extremely uncomfortable at the prospect, and Sokka expected about as much. It’s no bother, he’s been called worse. “Alright, uh- Councilman Sokka, I’m just going to replace your bandages and put on fresh salve. It’ll sting a little.” Sokka nods and pushes back the covers, pulling his tunic off over his head to expose the stained bandages crossing his sides. It hurts to lift his arms any higher than his shoulders, and he regrets not asking for help getting his shirt off. 

The healer- Sokka realizes he doesn’t know his name, but it seems a little too late to ask, considering his hands are all up on Sokka’s naked torso- cautiously prods the skin around the bandage, which feels like pressing on a bruise and succeeds in doing nothing but making Sokka irritated. The healer seems to think whatever he was poking was satisfactory, because he begins to unwrap the bandages with a steady yet timid hand. 

Sokka prefers the healer that treated him yesterday, the head one. He was less nervous, more sure of himself. Maybe he had more important things to do than clean the bandages of a Republic City Councilman, but he doubts it. Sokka’s so distracted by his own bitterness that he doesn’t notice once all the bandages are removed, and he nearly misses the sharp hiss the healer makes when he sees the wound. 

When Sokka glances at the healer, he’s greeted by a face drained of color, almost as if he had seen a ghost. Whatever is under those bandages can’t be that bad, Sokka figures, and looks down. 

Oh.

Shit.

The cut itself is still slowly leaking blood, which had been absorbed by the now reddened bandages lying in a basket by Sokka’s feet. It’s as open as the day he got it, and even more so now. But around the wound- that’s the horrible part. The skin, in a patch about the size of Sokka’s hand, is stained a gruesome yellow, tinged with green and brown like the dead fish that used to wash ashore back in the Southern Water Tribe, the ones no one wanted to eat. The flesh around the cut looks nearly rotten, and all of the sudden the dull pain Sokka has been ignoring all morning hits him full force. 

The healer quickly schools his expression and rummages around in his bag for a bottle of a dark brown liquid that unnerves Sokka. “I think it would be best if we stitched this up,” the healer says, looking directly at Zuko.

Zuko’s also looking a little queasy, so Sokka cuts in, “that’s fine. Whatever helps.”

The healer still looks a little apprehensive, but Sokka just lets him get to work. The mysterious bottle is probably an antiseptic, just going off of how it stings. But, as seems to be his mantra for the day, Sokka’s been through worse, so he grits his teeth and bears it. He doesn’t watch as the healer threads a needle and begins to pull his skin back together, no matter how much his own morbid curiosity makes him want to. It fucking hurts, though. Maybe not more than that broken leg, but enough to make him feel like he’s going to break his jaw with how tightly he’s clenching it.

“Sokka?” Zuko says tentatively, reaching out his hand, “do you-“

And because Sokka knows what he’s going to ask, he reaches out and clasps his hand around Zuko’s wrist, holding it probably much too tight for comfort. But Sokka doesn’t give a shit if Zuko’s comfortable, he’s not the one getting his flesh sewn together. “If we were in the Water Tribe,” he grits out between his teeth, “someone could’ve just waved some magic water over me and I would’ve been good as new. But _no_ , you had to get the torture master.”

“I’m sorry,” Zuko says earnestly, which was totally not the point. “But Katara will be here soon, and she’ll probably be able to take care of a lot of the remaining healing.”

“She’d better,” Sokka mumbles. He knows he’s being pathetic, but he doesn’t care. The only people here are the mild-mannered healer and Zuko, who’s definitely seen him at his worst.

With one more sharp tug, the healer sits back. “You’re done,” he says evenly. “I’ll just finish you up and be on my way.”

Sokka just stares at the ceiling. He knows in some halls in the palace, the ceilings are painted with intricate designs, but his is just… plain. Dark wood and hanging lamps. He wishes he were in the banquet hall, where there’s a whole mural on the ceiling and at every meal you can notice a new detail you didn’t see before. 

Then the healer puts his supplies in his bag and stands, hovering awkwardly at Sokka’s bedside. “Firelord Zuko,” he begins, sounding terrified, “could I speak with you for a moment? About the Councilman’s condition.”

Zuko begins to wrench his arm out from Sokka’s grip, but Sokka holds fast. “Hold on, where are you going?” He protests. “If you have something to say about _my_ condition, you can say it to _me_.”

The healer looks extremely uncomfortable with this turn of events. “Alright,” he says meekly, before clearing his throat and attempting a more competent air. “Firelord, you wouldn’t happen to have the dagger that injured the Councilman, would you?”

Zuko nods, glancing at Sokka. “I do. Why?”

“It seems as though the wound is infected, but-“ the healer shakes his head, baffled. “It’s not like any infection I’ve ever seen. If I could see the dagger, I could see if there was any sort of substance on the blade that might be affecting the wound in this way.” 

“What, do you think the knife was poisoned or something?” Sokka interjects.

The healer shuffles nervously. He looks pale again, just like when he had first seen the cut. “It’s a possibility we have to entertain,” he says. “But not a likely one. It’s probable that the dagger was dropped in something unsavory, or maybe your body is just reacting poorly to the injury. We can’t know until we have more information.”

“Well, you have complete access to the dagger,” Zuko offers, sounding perfectly like the peremptory Firelord he’s meant to be. “And any other information you might need.”

“Thank you, Firelord. And, uh- I wish you a quick recovery, Councilman Sokka.”

Sokka nods and the healer hovers for one moment more before turning on his heel and fleeing, the heavy door slamming shut behind him.

Zuko picks up the teapot, still half full, and brow furrowing, heats the pot from the outside in, warmth radiating from his palms, until steam pours out the spout. He grabs the old cups from Sokka’s bedside table and begins to pour. “Reheated tea is never as good, but I think this is a moment for a cup.”

Sokka takes the cup offered to him and cradles it in his hands, thinking on what the healer had said. “When Katara gets here, she’ll be able to know for sure if I’m infected and how to heal me,” he says absently. “I’m not too worried.”

“Good,” Zuko murmurs into his tea. “Worrying is my job.”

“How long do you think I’ll be stuck in bed?” Sokka wonders.

“We should’ve asked,” Zuko muses. “When the healer comes back tonight to replace your bandages again we can ask.” 

“Sounds like a smart plan,” Sokka says. The conversation is useless, just filling the air. But he’s glad for it; it takes his mind off the sharp pain in his side and the pounding in his head. 

Zuko seems to recognize this, and he keeps talking, even if that’s never been his strong suit. Mindless babble about something ridiculous one of the Earth Kingdom Ambassadors said the other day, vague comments on the weather. 

Sokka sits and listens. Like before, when he finishes his tea, he grinds the leaves against his teeth and leaves them there. His breath will smell like tea in a short while, but no one will notice. No one has gotten close enough to smell his breath in a long while, save for Zuko yesterday, hunched over him, clumsily bandaging his side. 

The memory of those hazy hours is there but distant. Everything is washed in a fog of pain and disassociation; in the chaos of the battle’s aftermath, Zuko’s voice had echoed around in his brain and made it hard to follow, so Sokka had just let himself be dragged about and hoped Zuko knew what he was doing. 

Sokka sits and wishes that he was better already. 

~

The day passes slowly. Zuko can’t stay, obviously, as is the life of the Firelord. For the most part, Sokka is bored. He’s in pain, and he’s lonely, but he’s just bored. Zuko eats lunch with him, bearing meat and books, and Sokka could kiss him. 

They’re low-grade novels, nothing of substance, which is exactly what Sokka needs. He nearly pushes Zuko out the door, he’s so excited to have something to do. But he doesn’t, because he likes the company even better.

Zuko again fills the time with idle chatter, recounting one of the meetings he had been in that morning. There had been an impassioned discussion about the possibility of a president in Republic City. Some thought the council was plenty of leadership, while others thought the city needed a strong hand to guide them into the future, similar to an emperor or king. Sokka thinks on this proposition and suggests a president work in conjunction with the council, so that everyone could agree. Besides, having two sources of leadership could provide accountability for either party, he explains.

Zuko grins widely. “That’s exactly it,” he mumbles. “Wait until I tell them about that.”

“Make sure you say it was my idea,” Sokka teases. “You can’t be stealing all my thunder just because I’m bedridden.”

“Of course not,” Zuko admonishes. “They know I could never think of anything that clever.”

But lunch doesn’t last forever, and Sokka’s left alone once more. He has books, though, so the afternoon looks a little brighter. 

He spends a few long hours reading steadily, and they pass quickly. The fire dies down to coals, and he hardly notices when a servant slips in to rekindle it. The constantly roaring fireplaces, he’s noticed, are more a matter of principle than anything else. It’s just nearing the end of summer, and it’s still hot enough to pass as mid-July. Between the damp air and the blankets thrown over him, Sokka could be perfectly comfortable without the fire, yet it’s never allowed to die. 

There seems to be something poetic in that. 

The books Zuko brought him are boring in their superficiality. He enjoys them, of course, but they don’t offer anything to mull over; there’s no meat on the bones. So when he finishes one book, he has no choice but to start another. He wishes he could sit and gaze into the fire, ruminating on the story and its meaning, but he would just end up running away with his thoughts and within a minute wouldn’t be thinking about books at all. So he picks up the next book on the pile and begins to read.

It’s one with a plot that seems mildly familiar: two lovers, on either sides of a terrible divide, fall in love over a series of letters. 

Sokka thinks letters certainly have the capacity to be romantic, but the cynic in him reiterates the fact that Sokka’s only ever sent and received letters about mundane things like political maneuvers and taxes. But then again, he’s only ever dated two people and one of them turned into the moon.

So it’s not like he has a lot of experience in the romance arena.

And if you’re going to write a romantic letter, what do you put in it? To Sokka, romance is gifts, shared experience, inside jokes. How do you encapsulate that in a letter? If he’s ever kidnapped, he decides, he’ll send a letter to one of his friends full of flowery, romantic prose. That’s how they’ll know he’s being held hostage. He wouldn’t send it to Toph, given that she can’t read. And Katara’s his sister, so that would just be weird. It would have to be Zuko, he thinks. Aang would just be too overjoyed to receive a letter like that to think anything of it. 

In his mind, he files that plan away as he continues onto the next chapter. 

The fire dies again, and this time the servant coming to stoke it brings dinner as well. 

He nearly cries when he sees it. It’s a huge pot of some kind of stew, glistening meat and a thick, spicy-smelling sauce. There’s a couple large slabs of bread that Sokka infers are meant for dipping. Beside the meal is a pot of tea with a note that reads ‘FOR PAIN.’ Distantly Sokka wonders if this is a convoluted assassination attempt, but the throbbing ache in his side argues in favor of drinking the mystery tea. Besides, he recognizes that scrawl. He can’t place it, but it sits at the back of his memory and he files away a reminder to ask Zuko about it when he sees him again. 

He considers waiting for Zuko to join him, like he had done at lunch, but decides against it. He’s hungry, and Zuko is the Firelord- there’s no telling how busy his schedule can get. 

The meal is delicious, and it’s gone too quickly. The tea smells vaguely spicy, like the stew, and it burns the back of his throat as he drinks it. 

If it weren’t for the stab wound, Sokka would be enjoying himself. A pleasant dinner alone in bed, with a crackling fire and a book. A day with no obligations, no meetings, no pointless bureaucratic tasks. He looks around the room and tries to capture the moment, a rare moment of peace. 

The door swings open.

“Sokka!” Toph yells, barreling into the room like she’s all of twelve, not the young mother she is. 

For a second Sokka’s brain lags behind, still trying to catch up with the rapid change of energy in the little bedroom. When it does, he grins. “Hey, Toph!”

Zuko follows in behind her. “I tried to convince her to knock,” he says meekly.

Sokka laughs and shrugs, attempting to move his dishes away without too much discomfort. He doesn’t succeed, and he’s hit with a sharp jab of pain in his side. “And you seriously thought that would work?”

Zuko gives a small chuckle and rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Not really.”

Toph takes a seat on the armchair by the bed, and as always Sokka is astounded at her ability to take up so much state with her short stature. She’s all sprawled limbs and grand motions, and she seems to be so much bigger than she is. Sokka’s always admired that about her. “So, Snoozles. Tell me everything.”

Unlike Aang, Sokka doesn’t protest the nickname. He knows he’ll be saddled with it until he dies, and it doesn’t bother him one bit. “Where’s Lin?” He asks. 

“With a friend,” Toph responds. “Quit dodging the question. I want to know what it feels like to be stabbed.”

“Painful,” Sokka answers simply. “You should’ve brought her! She needs quality time with her Uncle Sokka, you know.”

Toph snorts. “I’ll bring her sometime when you’re not bleeding out.” 

“Did you already eat dinner?” Zuko asks, eyeing Sokka’s empty dishes. 

“Uh, yeah. Should I have waited? I didn’t know if you were coming-“

“No, it’s fine,” Zuko says with a wave of his hand. “I’ll ask someone to bring some up for us.”

Toph pumps her fist. “Spirits, I’m starving. They didn’t have anything edible on the boat.”

Zuko nods. “Right. I’ll, uh, step out and ask.” 

Once they’re alone, Toph sighs. “Look. I don’t want to be all sappy, because I’m sure Katara’s going to make up for both of us, but I feel like I have to ask. Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Sokka says, because it seems correct. He got stabbed, fine. And he’ll probably be bedridden a couple days, maybe a week. But it’s not like he’s dying or anything, he has no reason to _not_ be okay. In the grand scheme of things, he got lucky. If the knife had been just a few inches to the right, he probably would be dead. But he’s not, so he says he’s okay and he believes it. 

“Okay, good. Glad we got that out of the way.”

Sokka laughs. “How’s Lin? You know, because I can’t see for myself.” 

“Oh, shut up.” Toph kicked the side of Sokka’s bed, sending a gentle shock through the frame. “She’s doing fine. She said her first word the other day, you know.”

“What was it? Chief?” Sokka teases.

Toph laughs. “I’m surprised it wasn’t, honestly. It was ‘earth.’ Well, more like ‘earf,’ but you get the picture.”

“That’s fitting. Do you think she’ll be a bender?”

“I know she will,” Toph says resolutely. Sokka’s two times an uncle, once to Lin and once to little Bumi. He likes it, a lot more than he expected to. He remembers being a kid, trying to whip toddlers into shape back home, back when the war expected fighters of everyone. He cared so much back then, put so much weight on himself and those little boys. It’s nice to be able to watch Bumi toddle around and not have to picture him holding a spear, not be tormented by images of him standing alone on an icy parapet looking out towards an oncoming Fire Nation fleet. 

The door creaks open and Zuko steps back in. Sokka needs to remember to ask for someone to grease the hinges. “Food is on its way,” he says. 

“Zuko,” Sokka says, crossing his arms, “tell Toph how heartbroken I am she didn’t bring Lin with her.”

Zuko turns to Toph with a blank look on his face. “Apparently,” he intones, “Sokka’s heartbroken you didn’t bring Lin with you.”

It’s been a long time since they’ve laughed together, the three of them, and Sokka finds truth in the idea that laughter is the best medicine. Sure, it makes his side feel like it’s being pulled apart, but he ends up feeling more refreshed than he has been all day.

A servant brings up food for Toph and Zuko, and Sokka not-so-subtly steals a few bites from Zuko’s plate. Conversation comes naturally, as if they hadn’t spent a day apart. It feels barren without Aang and Katara and Suki, but the two of them do a mighty fine job of lightening Sokka’s heart.

Toph tells an old story from her metalbending academy, about one week when The Dark One decided to give up poetry in order to experience ‘true despair.’ Toph recalls the week fondly. “There’s a certain amount a person can take,” she says. “And I’ve definitely had my fill.”

“Did I ever tell you about my little poetry adventure in Ba Sing Se?” Sokka begins, and then they’re off again, reminiscing and revealing ancient secrets. Zuko’s first kiss was with a woman named Jin, apparently. Sokka wonders how they made it through two decades of friendship without that ever coming up. 

Just like he had during dinner, Sokka tries to paint a mental image of this moment. Zuko sitting perched on the end of Sokka’s bed, Toph lounging in the armchair to his right. The food spread out on the blanket, reminiscent of the communal meals traditional in the Southern Water Tribe. The fire making happy crackling sounds in the corner. 

Sokka’s been too involved with work the past few months. He knows this, he just always prioritized his duty over his friends. But spirits, how long has it been since he’s seen them? Aang and Zuko he sees frequently, considering their involvement in Republic City. He sees Toph sometimes, when someone on his street gets arrested. Suki, though, he doesn’t think he’s seen in over a year. She’s been globetrotting with the Kyoshi Warriors, training the next generation and recruiting chi-blockers. That’s the problem with being friends with war heroes of international importance; they get _busy_. Too often Sokka wishes he could be a normal man: settle down, buy a house in the country, not a cramped little space in Republic City. Find a wife, or a husband, maybe have a kid. He could even be a Councilman if he wanted, just… a normal one. Not one that had to attend every function, every spiritual event, every goddamn coronation and banquet under the sun. 

Sokka sighs and tunes back into the conversation. They’re discussing the upcoming Four Nations Banquet; or rather, Zuko is talking and Toph is hardly attempting to act interested. In Zuko’s defense, this year is a cultural landmark in that it’s the first Four Nations Banquet to be held in Republic City. It should be cause for celebration, but it’s merely a headache on Sokka’s part; in the other nations, there are clearly defined traditions to adhere to. Serve culturally significant food, dance traditional dances, everyone goes home happy. In Republic City, though, where there’s no defined culture, that just means chaos for the planning committee. And Sokka, as a member of the Council, is automatically counted in the planning committee. “Can we not talk about this now?” He pleads. “I’ve already got a meeting next week that I’m dreading, I don’t need this from you guys too.”

They seem to take that in stride, as Toph merely nods and asks, “when are you coming back to the city?”

“Soon,” Sokka promises. “As soon as I’m safe to travel.” 

“And that will be…” Toph waves her hand vaguely, indicating for Sokka to go on.

“Well, fuck, I don’t know, Toph. I’ve never really gotten stabbed before.” 

They laugh. They’re doing a lot of laughing tonight. “The doctors say he should be up and moving in a few days,” Zuko fills in. “If all goes according to plan.”

“What he said,” Sokka says, jabbing a finger in the air. “Because we all know how well Team Avatar sticks to plans.”

Toph snorts. “We’re not really Team Avatar without our avatar, are we? Maybe Aang’s our bad luck charm.”

Sokka shakes his head good-naturedly and tries to ignore the way his wound begins to throb with a newfound vengeance. “Wouldn’t that be something.” 

Zuko looks around the room absentmindedly, and his eyes land on Sokka’s dirty dishes on the nightstand. “Oh! How did you like the tea? Uncle had me give it to you, apparently it’s supposed to help with pain.”

 _So that’s where it came from_ , Sokka thinks. Knowing it came from Iroh greatly lessens the likelihood it was secretly poisoned. “It was fine. Spicy.”

“Turmeric is supposed to be a natural remedy,” Zuko explains. “I get it. I’ve had to drink it on more than one occasion.”

Sokka lifts an eyebrow. “More than one occasion?”

Zuko tries to keep a straight face, but his eyes betray him. “I was a troubled teen.”

Sokka admires the way his friends look silhouetted against the firelight. Toph, her head thrown back in laughter, her green traveling clothes muddled almost brown by the encroaching dark. She’s long lost the baby fat of when they were first friends, but she still has a spritish face shape that makes her look nearly wicked when she smiles. When he’s in Republic City, he passes the statue of her outside of the police building every morning on the way to the Council chambers. Without fail he crosses over to it and brushes his fingers across the marble base as he walks, a sort of tribute to his friend. Sokka doesn’t see her enough, considering she lives no more than five blocks from him. But she’s busy, and he’s busy, and their paths cross like ships passing in the night. 

Zuko is frequently lit by firelight- it’s kind of in the job description of Firelord. The palace is almost exclusively lit by candles and lamps and fireplaces. It’s always a little startling to come back to the palace after spending so long in Republic City, where electricity is starting to become widespread; it’s almost like stepping back a decade. But it suits him well. His face is full of angles and landscapes that disappear in the sunlight but become hard and defined in the dark, as the light moves across his face and illuminates his cheekbones, his nose, his chin. His hair takes on an indescribable sheen in the firelight, oranges and whites mingling in the glossy black. He looks happy with plenty of shadows to hide in.

Sokka’s always seen Zuko as beautiful, in an objective sort of way. He realized a long time ago that it goes deeper than appearance; it’s something about the way he holds himself, about the timbre of his voice, the way his cheeks crease when he smiles. He knows Zuko will have to marry soon, a political inevitability for someone of his age, and Sokka’s often wondered who could possibly stand next to him without being obscured by such an ineffable character. It’s strange, growing up and having to think about marriage as an immediate fact instead of a distant possibility. Sokka thought he would marry Yue, unite the two tribes. But even then he knew that was impossible with her arranged marriage all set. Then he thought he would marry Suki, for there was no other feasible outcome for the vast affection he felt for her. She felt the same, until they grew up and apart and Sokka’s overprotectiveness which was once endearing became irritating. He hasn’t really wanted to marry anyone since. It’s difficult to keep cynicism out of romance when marriage becomes a political maneuver and his friends are berated with the crass but realistic necessity of ‘an heir and a spare.’ Sokka watches as Zuko yawns behind his hand and wonders how his mind got on the topic of marriage.

Sokka’s telling a story about an Earth Kingdom innkeeper who tried to get him to marry her daughter after discovering that the ‘friendly, handsome man who had rented a room’ was buddy-buddy with the avatar when there’s a knock at the door. Sokka puts a pin in his tale and tells whoever to come in.

It’s the healer from yesterday, the confident one, tailed by the healer from this morning and another he’d never seen before.

“Three healers?” Sokka jokes. “You really know how to make a guy feel special.” 

They don’t laugh. If anything, the third healer, a woman whose short-cropped brown hair and full cheeks reminds Sokka of the innkeeper from his story, looks more somber. “We came to replace your bandages,” the confident healer, who Sokka assumes is the leader, says. “And we have an update regarding the Councilman’s condition.”

Toph, who’s been lounging with her legs draped over the armrest, swings her legs around so her feet rest on the ground. Zuko moves to get off the bed and stands behind Toph, resting his hands on the back of the chair. 

The healers don’t say much as they methodically remove the bandages, poke at the fresh skin around the wound, and use a terrifying-looking syringe to painfully extract what seems like a gallon of blood from the cut and seal it in a small glass jar, which the nervous healer puts in his bag of tools. Something petty in Sokka’s mind wishes they would ask for permission before taking his blood and feeling up his torso, but if it’s in the name of medicine he really has no reason to stop them. They smear on more salve, which smells like the garbage behind a tea shop, and bandage him up again. 

Then they stand, a solemn trifecta, and look at Sokka with dark eyes. “Councilman Sokka,” the head healer says. “Firelord Zuko. We’ve contacted an herbalist who was able to inspect the dagger that wounded the Councilman, and we now believe that the dagger was coated in a poisonous substance. We’ve also contacted an alchemist within the Fire Sages, who we are still waiting for a reply from. However, this poison is… nothing like we’ve ever seen before, and we have no way of knowing how to counteract it.”

Sokka feels his blood run cold, or at least what’s left of it after the healers drained him dry. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Zuko’s grip tighten on the back of Toph’s chair. Toph’s face changes almost imperceptibly, a barely-there crease of the brows. Behind the head healer, the other two exchange heavy glances. Sokka’s sure he looks like a dunce, sitting there halfway under the covers with his shirt off, bandages up to his ribs, his hair greasy and uncombed and his mouth hanging open. He wishes he could look more dignified, like a Republic City Councilman, but as the healer speaks to him in low tones he can’t help but feel his tongue dry up and the slump in his posture begin to smart. It hurts, right between his shoulder blades, but it doesn’t feel right to adjust his sitting right now. It doesn’t feel right to move. 

“We’ve taken samples of Councilman Sokka’s blood, and we will determine if the poison has entered his bloodstream. If it has…” the head healer, who until now has been so confident, seems at a loss for words. That, more than anything, terrifies Sokka. “If the poison has entered your blood, there is a good chance that we will have no way to stop it.”

“Stop it from what?” Zuko asks weakly, his knuckles white on the back of the chair. Sokka wants to slap him. He should _know_ , it’s obvious what the healer’s trying to say. 

“The poison may kill you,” he says simply. And then, after a brief pause, in which he wets his lips and darts a glance at Toph and Zuko, who look as though they both could disintegrate a person with the sheer force of their gaze, awkwardly continues, “I- I’m very sorry, Councilman Sokka.”

“So that’s it?” Zuko demands. It’s not the peremptory question of a Firelord, it’s the quaking voice of a sixteen-year-old banished prince furious at the world for the wrongs it has done him. “Sokka _dies_ and you can’t do anything about it?”

The confident healer, who is not so confident anymore, looks pained. “Not necessarily. There’s still a lot we don’t know. We’re not entirely sure of the composition of the poison, but if we can learn more we might be able to create an antidote. We aren’t sure if it’s entered your bloodstream, either. If it’s only reached the area around the wound, it’s possible we could… remove the infected flesh in order to prevent it from spreading. And we don’t know the potency of the poison, so it’s entirely possible that you may make a full recovery with no assistance on our part. All we can do is learn as much as we can and hope for the best.”

Zuko looks like he’s about to call their bluff, or rather like he’s about to curse them out and beat up the three of them, right there in Sokka’s bedroom. Instead he just clenches his jaw even more than it already is and closes his eyes. Toph is sitting almost as still as Sokka is, nearly a statue. For a moment nobody moves.

Sokka takes a deep breath and is horrified at the way it shudders on its way in. “How long will it be until I can move around again?” Because that seems like the only thing he can possibly ask. There’s so much in his head that he can’t possibly expect the healers to answer. _What’s it like to die? Will I see my mother when I leave? What about Yue?_

The healer purses his lips as if he expected a drastically different question. Maybe tears. “Only a few more days. Let’s bank on three, how does that sound?” 

‘Tomorrow’ would’ve been the preferable answer, Sokka thinks. Three days stuck in bed sounds like torture. “Alright,” he says, because he shouldn’t argue with a healer. That’s what mom told him when he was seven and he cut his hand and he wasn’t allowed to scratch at the scab, even though it itched. He still secretly itched at it at nighttime, and it took forever to heal. Mom knew, Sokka’s sure of, but just let him prolong his suffering and learn his lesson. He can’t help but smile a little, which probably makes him look like some kind of freak. 

“Thank you,” Zuko says, which is a clear message for the healers to leave. They do, after casting dark and fearful glances back at Sokka as they close the door behind them. 

Sokka wishes that as soon as they had left, the energy in the room lifted. That once it was just his friends, that everything would seem better. 

It doesn’t.

Zuko’s looking off at the wall like he wants to burn a hole in it with his eyes, fingers white on Toph’s chair. Toph is still just… still. It’s unsettling, and Sokka wishes one of them would say something.

He wishes he could think of something to say. Something clever, something that’ll elevate the tension in the room. Something that will make Toph laugh, loud and boisterous, and make Zuko’s mouth twitch up into a smile. Instead, he says, “I’m not going to die.”

The healers said it themselves. They don’t know anything about the poison yet, and Sokka’s tough. He’ll push through, make his way to the other side by sheer force of will. So why won’t Zuko and Toph move? Sokka tries again. “I’m not going to die, you know that.” 

“Yeah,” Toph says eventually. She says it forcefully, gruff. She says it like a police chief. “Yeah.”

Zuko looks down and seems to notice his grip on the back of the chair. He lets go and walks around, retaking his place at the foot of Sokka’s bed. He sits with his legs folded under him, his robes bunched up as if he’s perched on a cloud. There’s still a clench to his jaw and a faraway look in his eyes, and Sokka lifts his arm and flexes his muscles like he had earlier, hoping to make Zuko blush and look away again, hoping to break the silence. “I’m tough, remember?”

Zuko doesn’t laugh. He does look away though, down at his hands. He picks at his fingernails and says nothing. 

“Spirits, you two,” Sokka pushes, because at this point the awkwardness is worse than the poison. “If you're not going to talk, at least leave me alone so I can get my beauty rest in.” 

Zuko doesn’t look up from his hands. “Maybe that’s for the best,” he mumbles. “I’ve got an early meeting tomorrow.”

Secretly, Sokka’s a little peeved that Zuko called his bluff. He watches as Zuko rises slowly, stretches, and smooths his robes. Sokka doesn’t want the environment that they had created during dinner to disappear, to be sucked out of the room as soon as the others leave, stranding Sokka in the lonely darkness of his thoughts. 

The fire has died down, and Zuko kneels by the fireplace to relight it. Sokka feels strangely lucky to be able to see the Firelord like this, on the sooty ground doing work that should be relegated to a servant. He gets to see a side to the people that most folks will only ever hear about in war stories and textbooks. 

Zuko pauses by the door. “Toph, are you coming?”

“Give me a second,” Toph says, making an exaggerated yawn. “I don’t want to get out of this chair.”

Zuko rolls his eyes. “Fine. Good night, Sokka. You too, Toph.”

“G’night, Sparky,” Toph says. 

“Good night,” Sokka says. “And Zuko?” He adds, before Zuko has the chance to slip out the door. “It’s going to be fine.” 

“I know,” comes Zuko’s voice from the hall as the door swings shut.

It’s brighter now that Zuko’s relit the fire. Sokka wonders how he’ll ever get to sleep tonight.

“You know you can’t sleep in that chair-“ Sokka begins, when Toph quietly interrupts, “hey, Sokka?”

For a moment Sokka’s thrown by the timidness of Toph’s voice. It’s unlike her. “Yeah?”

“I didn’t want to say anything in front of the healers, because I frankly don’t trust them, but I think I should try something.” She takes a deep breath and stands, walking towards the bed. “You’re… full of metal. Little flecks of it. It’s all through your torso. I think- I can’t see any reason why it wouldn’t be connected to the poison, and I can try…” she doesn’t finish. Sokka knows what she’s insinuating, that she can try and metalbend the poison out of him. Sokka’s surprised that she kept it to herself this long; if he walked into a room and his friend was stuffed with metal, he was pretty sure he’d say something. 

But he trusts her, he always has, so he says, “if anyone can do it, you can.”

Toph nods and plants her feet on the smooth stone floor of Sokka’s room. Her brow furrows as she lifts her hands, almost as if she doesn’t realize she’s doing it. Sokka watches the way she shifts in the firelight, getting into the metalbending stance she’s taught students for years. As she closes her eyes and bites her lip and extends her hands towards Sokka, and he suddenly feels an awful motion beneath his skin. It’s horrible, it’s even worse than the stab wound, it feels like hundreds of little bugs crawling around in the cavity of his stomach. He feels the little bugs push and pull beneath his skin, pressing up and attempting to break free, and he thinks back to being bloodbent by Hama, way back in the day. The feeling of his blood rushing to one side, pushing and dragging. 

Toph clenches her fists and brings them to her hips, her face contorted in a mask of concentration. The crawling gets worse, and it feels like Sokka’s going to be torn apart from the inside out. He presses his head back against the pillow and wishes he had Zuko’s hand to hold like when he had gotten the stitches. He’s trying to dig himself into the mattress it feels like, just trying to feel anything other than the horrible writhing. Toph makes one small noise of frustration and the feeling intensifies by the thousands. She’s putting her all in, he can tell, and he really damn well hopes it’s working. 

There’s one last burst of pain and then it stops. Sokka looks up to see Toph Beifong, the best Earthbender in the world, lower her arms in defeat.

She opens her eyes. “I’m sorry, Sokka,” she says, and she really sounds it. The fire crackles merrily in the corner. “I can’t get it out.”

Something in Sokka compels him to reach out and grab her hand. She looks startled for a moment but softens, huffing a sigh. “I’m sorry.”

“You heard the healers,” Sokka reassures. “Nobody knows jack shit about this stuff. None of them even realized there was metal in me, so you’re already leagues ahead of them.”

Toph smiles, just a little. “Don’t coddle me,” she says, because she’s a mother and the chief of police and she’s never wanted to be coddled a day in her life. “Good night, Sokka.”

“Good night, Toph. I’ll see you in the morning, right?”

“Of course,” she says, hand resting on the doorknob. “Where else would I be? Everyone in Republic City heard about you and stopped doing crime, you know. Out of respect.”

“Well that was very considerate of them,” Sokka plays along. “Make sure you tell them once I’m better so you aren’t out of a job.”

“Sure,” Toph laughs. “See you tomorrow.”

It isn’t the immediate loss of energy that Sokka expected once Zuko and Toph were gone, but it’s close. The fire is still blazing, offering chipper little sparks and pops as if trying to contribute something friendly to the room. Sokka’s warm and comfortable under the blanket, and whatever salve the healers had put on him has done quite a job relieving a lot of his pain. 

Sokka sits and stares at the spot where Zuko had sat not ten minutes before. He won’t lie, it’s been nice being in the palace. Having Zuko fuss over him, having him hover about between meetings. Sokka didn’t realize how lonely he was in the city until he came here. When he goes back, once he’s all healed, what will happen? Will everything return back to normal? Or will his friends, shaken by Sokka’s brush with death, make an effort to reach out more often. On the flip side, should Sokka feel grateful Tui and La gave him a chance at life and reach out himself? 

A part of his brain, the cruel, pessimistic part, reminds him that Tui and La might not be as kind as they seem. The healers had said that he might die. That the knife was coated in poison- what a load of hogwash. It sounds like something out of a story, and not a very good one. But he wouldn’t put it past the Red Lotus, who didn’t think twice about stabbing him and leaving him to die. Sokka feels a rush of terror, the kind that grips you around the heart and won’t let go. He could be dying. Oh spirits, he could be _dying_. He hasn’t married, or bought a nice house in the countryside, or seen the fruits of the Southern Water Tribe reconstruction project. If he dies now, at this unsatisfied, lonely part of his life, what will he miss? He won’t see baby Lin start to walk, or see little Bumi come down to the South to play in his first snowball fight. He won’t know if Republic City is a bust or not, which he has half a mind to believe it is. He’ll be dead. And what will happen to his friends? They’ll be heartbroken. And Aang, poor Aang, who’s witnessed the death of his entire people, doesn’t deserve his dearest friend to suffer an early demise. 

With a start, Sokka realizes his eyes are burning. He lifts a hand to touch his right eye and it comes back wet. 

He blinks rapidly and clears thoughts of dying from his head. The healers had sounded so unsure about the whole thing. It’s perfectly possible that they’re wrong about everything, that Sokka just has a cold that coincided poorly with his stabbing. 

And Katara’s arriving tomorrow. She’s the best healer he knows, maybe even the best in the world. Even if these backwater Fire Nation healers don’t know how to fix someone without lashing them up like a ripped sail, Katara will. She’ll see him and put her magic water on his wound and know exactly what to do.

Sokka shifts down under his blanket and tries to focus on going to sleep. There’s still a sort of hardness in the pit of his chest that he tries to imagine as a lump of ice melting. He imagines a chunk of ice, encased in a layer of soft show, and imagines Zuko lifting his hand and using his fire to slowly eat away at the ice until it’s running in rivers of cool water. He pulls the sheets up to cover his ears and tries not to think of a thing. It doesn’t work.

He hopes he dreams about Yue again. His last dream had been distressing, but it was nice to see her face. It’s nice to remember her, even if only in sleep. It would be nice to see her after the day he’s had. He would like to be a star again, he thinks. 

He would like to be a star.


	2. Zuko I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zuko struggles with the inevitable, Sokka pretends everything is fine, and friends reunite.

_Louise comes back with her brown hair braided,_  
_Annie with ringlets warm and wild._  
_-Only In Sleep, Sara Teasdale_

Zuko wakes with the sun. It doesn’t seem fair to call it waking, though. He’s spent the night in a restless half-sleep, turning over the words of the healers in his mind, wondering how to make sense of all of this.

The way to make sense of it, he decides, is to take matters into his own hands.

He skips his morning meeting. Instead, he leaves at the first inklings of daybreak with a satchel of findings and a determination to track down a member of the Red Lotus. And if his past history with the avatar counts for anything, it’s that he can find anyone if he puts his mind to it. 

By the time the sun crests the tops of the trees Zuko has heard tell that there’s an ex-Red Lotus member, one of the few deserters who survived, in a small town just east of Ba Sing Se. He finds out that the deserter is known only as The Aspen, and that she’s currently holed up in a tavern on the outskirts of town. The tavern owner agrees to bring Zuko to her once he graciously donates to her son’s education, which he would have done anyway. He likes kids. 

The Aspen is staying in the attic, and as Zuko pushes open the ceiling trapdoor he realizes why she’s named that: the woman is incredibly tall, hunched over in the corner. The only thing that comes to Zuko’s mind for a moment are the statues of Ozai that used to cover the Fire Nation, ten feet tall and blazing fire. Those statues of Ozai, then Zuko seeing his father crumpled in his jail cell, slowly wasting away until only his hatred kept him alive. The Aspen seems intimidating at first glance but Zuko finds her to be kind, someone who was eager for freedom but didn’t understand what it was the Red Lotus truly stood for. “Chaos,” The Aspen says. “Their version of freedom was anarchy.” They talk in hushed tones, because it’s impossible to know in the cramped little attic who is below and who could blow their cover. They talk and The Aspen tells Zuko all she knows and Zuko takes painfully intricate notes. He’ll bring them back to Sokka and Sokka will laugh at Zuko’s handwriting and everything will be as it was, a part of his brain thinks. But as The Aspen continues explaining the plan the Red Lotus was hoping to carry out, that part of his brain gets smaller and smaller. 

Zuko leaves with a new ally and a mind full of daggers, poison, and anarchy. And Sokka. How Sokka had looked when he had gotten stabbed, the bare fear on his face, and then the distant way he looked at nothing while Zuko bandaged him up. 

Zuko had told Sokka not to worry, and he stands by that. He’s going to figure out how to fix this. Sokka needs to keep going as he is, and when he gets all healed this will be one unfortunate blip in his life. There’s an alchemist deep in the recesses of the Fire Nation that Zuko will find, one entangled with the plot of the Red Lotus but not loyal to them, one who will know how to make an antidote. Someone smarter, more experienced, more knowing than the palace healers. And if the alchemist can’t help, he’ll call down the best healers from the Northern Water Tribe, and they’ll do something with their ‘water magic,’ as Sokka calls it, to figure out how to cure him.

There are options, is all. 

Sokka’s still asleep when Zuko returns. He doesn’t bother checking in with whoever it was he needed to meet with; their grievance wasn’t all that important anyway. Something about tariffs and how to close a neighboring town out of their trade deal for no reason other than pettiness. So Zuko goes down to the kitchen gardens and fills a basket with new apples, just beginning to ripen as the seasons change. He brings them up to Sokka’s room and waits.

It’s mid-morning and normally the rest of the palace is bustling, but Zuko told any nonessential servants to go spend time with their families in the vain hope that a calm, quiet environment would aid in the healing process. Sokka’s lying splayed out on his bed, half-covered by the blanket, cradling his pillow with one arm. Sokka is always busy, and it’s unnerving to see him stuck in bed. When he sleeps, though, he’s perfectly still. He doesn’t move or shift in his sleep, doesn’t mumble, doesn’t turn his head away from the sun. He stays, looking almost dead, the only indication of life the steady rising and falling of his chest. He has one hand rested on top of his bandages, as if he had been thinking of his wound when he fell asleep. 

Toph’s nowhere to be seen; if Zuko knows her, which he does, he’d be willing to bet that she came in, saw Sokka still in bed, and returned to her room to go back to sleep. 

So Zuko sits at the armchair by the bed and thinks that they’ll need to get another chair or two in the room for both him and Toph and soon Katara and inevitably Aang and Suki, too. 

But for now Zuko just watches Sokka sleep. It’s a little weird, he knows, but no one’s around to judge him for it except Sokka when he eventually wakes up, but he’s convinced he won’t hold it against him; they’ve been through stranger. Sokka’s chest moves slowly, almost hypnotizing in its meditative repetition. In the clear light of the morning, Zuko takes in the way the shadows play across Sokka’s jaw, the almost unnoticeable distance his lips are parted as he breathes. His hair is out of its signature wolftail, spread loose around his head, the deep brown like a stain on the white pillow. It’s a rare treat to see Sokka with his hair down, and one that Zuko makes sure to remember. He knows, just like in the Fire Nation, Sokka keeping his hair up is a symbol of his culture, yet he can’t help but wonder why he doesn’t wear it down all the time. If he did, he wouldn’t be the aging bachelor he is, Zuko thinks bitterly. It’s strange, that he has his pick of any girl in Republic City, and honestly probably all the four nations, and remains single. And Zuko understands that he’s busy, that he’s fulfilled by friendship, but if Sokka feels even a fraction of the loneliness that Zuko does, he can’t even imagine why he would push that opportunity away. Zuko’s had moments where he’s been jealous of Sokka; he has no expectation to marry well, no pressure to deliver heirs. No royal bloodline to continue. There have also been moments where Zuko’s doubted whether he wants to continue his bloodline at all. 

But Sokka’s free. He has all the benefits of a high-ranking Councilman and none of the downsides. Except, Zuko thinks sheepishly, looking down at where Sokka’s hand rests on his stomach, for that whole stabbing ordeal. 

Zuko’s suddenly struck with a jab of guilt. He has no right to judge Sokka for any lack of a relationship when he’s older and just as single. Besides, it’s none of his business. And it’s definitely weird to watch his friend while he sleeps, so Zuko tears his gaze away and stares resolutely out the window. 

There’s not a cloud in the sky; it’s going to be hot today. Zuko knows from a lifetime within these walls exactly what direction the harbor is in, even if he can’t see it. He imagines a sturdy little steamboat making its way towards the palace. Katara would be up on the bow, leaning out over the water, feeling the salt spray on her face. He can picture it. He wills the little steamboat to go faster. 

Sokka stirs. He doesn’t quite wake up yet, but he shifts in bed, tipping his head towards Zuko, towards the open window, and experimentally opens and closes his mouth. If Zuko can guess right, Sokka will be awake in a few moments, brought back to life by the movement and sunlight. 

The basket of apples sits by Zuko’s feet. He picks one up and holds it in the palm of his hand, just looking. Inspecting, maybe. Biding time. The skin is in the odd, yellowish stage between new green and a deep, ripe red. It’s unblemished, the platonic ideal of an apple. He puts it back in the basket and picks up a new one. This one is redder, it had grown higher up, closer to the sun. There’s a bruise by the stem where Zuko had dropped it earlier. He places it on the arm of the chair, balancing it precariously next to his hand. On the bed, Sokka cracks open his eyes and lets out a puff of air. 

“Good morning.”

Sokka groans and looks over at Zuko. “I wasn’t sleeping,” he lies. “I was meditating.” 

“Aang would be very proud.” Zuko picks the apple up off the chair and gently tosses it between his hands, thinking. After a moment he puts down the apple and stands up, walking over to where he knows there’s a small pocketknife tucked away on the mantle of the fireplace; Sokka had put it there so he could shave pieces of wood for kindling, if he was ever faced with the prospects of lighting a fire himself. Zuko takes the pocketknife and wipes it off on the sleeve of his robes before sitting down again. “I brought you an apple for breakfast.”

“Not a very hearty breakfast,” Sokka teases, as Zuko begins to slice the apple. The knife cuts through with a satisfying, juicy crunch. Zuko watches it score the flesh, cuts a parallel line, and slides the wedge out before carving out the hard core from the middle. The slice resembles a little crescent moon, waning in the sky. Zuko places it on a handkerchief, embroidered with the royal insignia, and begins to cut another slice. “I can do that myself, you know,” Sokka says. 

“I want to,” Zuko responds, making another perfect slice and laying it on the handkerchief. 

Sokka pushes himself up to sitting. Zuko tries not to acknowledge the way he winces in pain with the motion. “You don’t have to,” Sokka says softly, his voice still cracked from sleep. 

And what does he want Zuko to say? That the fact that Sokka looks vaguely uncomfortable with being cared for makes Zuko want to do this all the more? That seeing the bandages crossing Sokka’s torso awakens some sort of primal, protective instinct that makes him want to hold Sokka tight and never let go? That he’s terrified that even with The Aspen, and the alchemist, and Katara, and the Northern Water Tribe healers, nothing he can do will help Sokka? That he’s beyond saving, that Zuko will spend the rest of Sokka’s life trying to achieve something that can’t be achieved, that he worries that if he pushes himself into finding a cure he’ll end up pushing Sokka away when he needs the comfort of a good friend the most? That right now he needs to slice this apple into perfect little wedges more than he’s ever needed anything in his life? 

Zuko just nods and says, “I know.”

Sokka watches Zuko’s hands work the pocketknife against the stiff flesh of the apple. Zuko pauses and pushes the handkerchief closer to Sokka. “Eat,” he pleads. 

Sokka eats.

It scares Zuko how deeply he feels. It scares him how quickly he was able to dip into despair, how easily he was willing to believe that Sokka is dying. There’s a part of his brain that’s hardwired for tragedy. It’s easier, he thinks, to have a friend die than to have a friend scrape through a near-death experience and have to deal with all the emotional repercussions that come with it. With death you’re allowed to be heartbroken, you’re allowed to let yourself fall apart. Now, with Sokka sitting in front of him, calmly eating apple slices, watching, Zuko has to grapple with the fact that something inside him feels as though Sokka has already died. 

“You’re thinking,” Sokka says, fruit crunching under his teeth. “I can tell.”

Zuko pointedly doesn’t react, just continues plying the pocketknife through the perfectly white skin of the apple. “And if I am?” 

Sokka chews for a moment. “I don’t know. I guess you’re allowed to think- I happen to do it quite often myself.” 

Zuko can’t help the grin that pulls at his mouth. “Really?” He quips. “I couldn’t tell.”

A piece of apple hits him square in the center of the forehead, and when he looks up Sokka’s smiling. They lapse back into silence and Zuko forces any negative thoughts out of his mind. Because Sokka’s not dead, he’s sitting right in front of Zuko, a little tired and a little bloody and a big piece of shit, but alive. Zuko finishes with the apple and steals a slice for himself; it’s new enough that it’s not quite as sweet as it will be in a few weeks. It’s crisp and sort of bitter, but it’s the act of sharing fruit with a friend, the act of letting yourself take care of someone, letting yourself be taken care of, that makes it such an exemplary apple. 

“So,” Sokka says, breaking the silence with a gentle grin, “how many meetings have you blown off this morning?”

Zuko huffs a laugh. “Too many.”

“Well, it’s not like you can get fired,” Sokka points out. 

“Yeah, unless Azula decides to usurp me.” 

“She wouldn’t stand a chance.” Sokka stretches his arms out in front of him, a pop sounding from his elbows. “We could take her.” 

Zuko rolls his eyes. “Like you’re in the condition to fight.” 

“I could,” Sokka protests. Zuko looks at him, at the gleeful shine in his eyes, and is overwhelmingly thankful that with everything he’s gone through, nothing has managed to crush his spirit. Sometime along the line, sometime between their teenage years and where they are now, Sokka stopped using humor as a coping mechanism and began to genuinely love making people laugh, began to really smile with all his teeth. It seems silly to say that seeing Sokka happy makes Zuko happy, but it’s an indescribable feeling seeing Sokka lighthearted and joyful, a kind of wash of softness, the kind of happiness that grips Zuko’s chest somewhere just beneath his heart.

Zuko turns his head to look out the window, willing the little steamboat to carry Katara to them faster. “You could,” he concedes. 

They sit, enjoying each other’s company. A servant named Tyla comes in to stoke the fire and bring Sokka a real breakfast, and she looks surprised to see Zuko, considering he’s supposed to be halfway across the palace in the throne room meeting with an ambassador from Omashu. She offers a customary “good morning, Firelord” and Zuko greets her by name; she smiles. 

When she leaves, Sokka’s looking at Zuko with an inscrutable expression on his face. “What?” Zuko asks, and Sokka shakes his head before leaning down to reach the breakfast tray that’s been placed at the foot of his bed. He stops halfway to the tray, his face contorted in pain, before he schools his expression, letting out a pointed hiss. Zuko stands quickly and sets the tray down on Sokka’s lap, who looks disappointed. In what, Zuko can’t tell. 

Zuko stays standing by the bed, thinking of what to say. After a few moments he decides on, “are you okay?” 

Sokka’s expression doesn’t change, save for a slight waver in his easy smile. “I’m fine.”

“Stop lying,” Zuko blurts. “I know you’re not fine, I know you’re hurting. If I-“ He takes a breath. Sokka’s looking down at his breakfast, eyebrows pulled together. “Sokka, I care about you. I really do.” Sokka looks up at him, and something in his eyes is so unguarded for a split second that it sends Zuko reeling. “And I want to help you if you need it. Just… is there anything I can do?”

Sokka turns his head to watch the fire. He gnaws at his lip. Zuko watches this, watches the way he thinks with his whole face. He knows he fucked up, implying that Sokka needs help. Because Zuko’s the exact same, he would never ask for help if he didn’t really need it. Sokka thinks and Zuko wonders if he’s pushed too far, if Sokka’s going to retreat, reiterate that he’s fine. Instead, he asks, “can you bring another apple tomorrow morning?”

Zuko feels as though he might collapse with relief. “Yeah,” he breathes. “I will.” 

Sokka looks back down at his breakfast, at the rice and fish that’s steadily getting cold. “Alright,” he says. “Go. I don’t want you missing any more meetings on my behalf.”

Zuko smiles. “They can’t fire me.”

“I’ll keep an eye out for Azula,” Sokka says with a wink. “Wake up Toph for me, will you?”

“Of course,” Zuko responds, and hovers by the door. “You-“

“ _Go_ ,” Sokka laughs. “I’ll see you at lunch.” 

Zuko misses Sokka as soon as he steps out of the room. They don’t see each other enough, and Zuko feels a little ashamed to admit that he’s grateful that Sokka got stabbed if it means they’re able to spend so much time together. They only have a few more days before Sokka returns to Republic City, and then they only see each other in passing, in Council meetings and during public appearances. Zuko’s busy, he always is, so he doesn’t get to think about Sokka much as he works. He doesn’t think about Sokka until he takes short breaks, and then he feels guilty about not thinking about Sokka. Which is stupid, because he’s working, but Zuko’s convinced his brain hasn’t matured past the age of eighteen. 

He’s in the middle of a heated debate about land taxes with a Fire Nation noble when a servant, a man old enough to have served under Ozai’s reign, enters and tells Zuko that Master Katara of the Northern Water Tribe has arrived and is waiting for him in the throne room.

Zuko’s glad for the interruption, and if he hustles away from his previous conversation a little too quickly that’s nobody’s business.

The throne room has undergone substantial changes since Zuko was a child, and every time he walks in he feels a great rush of pride. Gone is the pedestal ringed in fire, the heavy draperies depicting royalty past. He remembers looking up at his father’s face when he was young, barely able to make out its features beneath the shadows. The throne room is well lit now, with shining candles and lamps of white fire. The arched ceilings, once intimidating black wood, open the room with light stone and simple columns. He’s pleased with the results, and he thinks his people are too. 

In the center of the room, framed in the glowing candlelight, stands Katara. She’s largely the same since Zuko saw her last, minus her husband at her side and with the addition of a stomach swollen with child. Everyone anticipates a winter baby, and Sokka is thrilled. He says children born during the winter months are the cleverest. 

Zuko barely has time to smile before Katara’s rushing forward, climbing the steps to the throne to meet Zuko before enveloping him in a tight hug. “It’s very nice to see you, Zuko,” she says.

He laughs. “It’s nice to see you too. You know, I thought you might save this kind of greeting for your brother.”

She pulls back, hands holding him at the biceps, and grins. “Eh, brother, Firelord, same thing. How have you been?” 

“I’ve been fine, you know, considering I wasn’t the one who got stabbed. I can take you to Sokka now, if you want. I happen to know he won’t be busy.” 

Katara takes him by the elbow and leads him back down the length of the throne room. She’s still the same as she’s always been, bright and spry. Her head barely crests his shoulder, which Zuko and the other men tease her mercilessly about. The only reason they don’t make fun of Toph’s height is fear. 

“Tell me all the palace gossip,” she half-jokes as they walk down the halls, arm in arm, like a young couple. “And tell me how Sokka’s doing. Be honest.”

“Well, one of the cooks, Riu, recently got married to one of the gardeners.” 

Katara gasps. “Which gardener?”

“I’m not quite sure,” Zuko admits. “I only heard it in passing. And I think Sokka’s doing alright. He seems happy when we’re with him, and he seems more open to accepting help.”

Katara nods thoughtfully. “You could learn a thing or two from him, huh?”

Zuko doesn’t respond. In his pocket, heavy as a stone, are the notes he took during his covert meeting with The Aspen. The information he regrettably gained, the news he’s going to have to break to everyone. Katara looks up at him. “You look worried.”

“I have new information about Sokka’s condition,” he confesses. “I’m going to tell you all once we’re all together, I didn’t want to tell Sokka alone in case- it doesn’t look good, Katara.”

Her steps slow beside Zuko’s. They pause in front of the door to Sokka’s room, and Katara bites her lip, gnaws at the skin of her lips exactly like Sokka does when he’s worried. From inside the room, Zuko hears Toph’s loud, rambunctious laughter. Somehow that makes his heart sink even deeper. “Okay,” she says. “Zuko, look at me.” There’s a strength in her eyes that he hasn’t seen in a while, hasn’t seen since the war. “I’m the best healer in the Northern Water Tribes. Whatever it is, I can handle it. And if not, we’ll figure something out.” She reaches up a hand and touches his cheek, her fingers cold against his skin. “We’re not going to let Sokka down, Zuko. Now or ever. So… man up and get in there and tell everyone what it is you have to say, and then we can go from there.”

Katara is fierce, and powerful, and very, very kind. Zuko is more grateful for that in this moment than he’s ever been in his life. Katara brings her hand down and clasps it in Zuko’s, and together they push open the door to Sokka’s room. 

“I could feel you creeping around outside,” is the first thing Toph says when they enter. “Are you cheating on Aang or something, Sugar Queen?”

Katara doesn’t even flush, not like she would have a decade ago, just sweeps forward like she did towards Zuko in the throne room, a blur of blue and white, and takes Toph in her arms. 

“Seriously?” Sokka says from the bed. “You go to her first? I’m the one dying!”

She laughs and pulls away. “Alright, fine. Up, let me hug my poor, dying brother.” 

Zuko’s about to say that Sokka only just got his stitches and that he really shouldn’t be standing when Sokka pushes back the covers and hoists himself over the edge of the bed. “Motherhood has changed you,” Sokka grumbles, and stands on shaky legs, wincing slightly as he moves. Katara just wraps her arms around him, and Sokka seems to collapse into her embrace. They stay there for a long time, swaying slightly, holding each other. Eventually they separate and Sokka says, “you’re enormous, ‘Tara.”

She swats him on the back of the head and they both laugh. “I’ve come all this way just to hear you call me enormous?”

“That’s usually how pregnancy works, Sokka,” Toph teases. “You see, when you saw Katara months ago, the baby was smaller. Now it’s later, and the baby is bigger. I thought you were supposed to be the smart one.”

Sokka sticks out his tongue at her, which she can’t see, but they’re good enough friends to understand each other’s ribbings. “Don’t make fun of him, Toph,” Katara says with a glint in her eyes. “Just remember the first time he saw a newborn baby he fainted.”

“I was fifteen! And in my defense, it was a gross looking baby!” Sokka cries, throwing up his hands in protest. “Speaking of babies,” he pivots, “why didn’t you bring Bumi, Katara? I need quality time with my favorite nephew!”

“You mean your _only_ nephew,” she corrects.

“Exactly,” Sokka says. “My favorite nephew by default. Why didn’t you bring him along? I was looking forward to it.”

Katara rolls her eyes but grins. “I’ll bring him sometime when you’re not bleeding out.”

From her armchair, Toph gasps in disbelief. “That’s exactly what I said!” 

Katara laughs. 

Zuko watches it all go down. It’s nice, even just having one more addition. Katara’s presence makes everything seem lighter, somehow. 

“Zuko, help me out,” Sokka begs. “I’m perfectly presentable, it’s not like I’d scare the kid.” Zuko takes stock of Sokka’s greasy hair, the sheen of sweat that still clings to his brow, even after the fever’s long broken, and shakes his head. “Come on, people, I’m dying! Can’t you lay off the stabbed guy?”

Katara’s face sobers, just enough that her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “About that,” she says, “I hear Zuko has some new information to tell us about.”

All eyes shift to Zuko, who immediately regrets telling Katara anything. But she’s usually right, so Zuko pulls out his notes from his pocket and uselessly looks for a place to sit. He never did bring in more chairs like he wanted to this morning, and now he regrets it, standing by the door like a martyr awaiting their fate. “I, uh- this morning,” he starts, “I met with a deserter from the Red Lotus to try and get inside information and I think… I think I might have found something.”

“And? Spit it out, Sparky,” Toph interjects, ever one for brevity. 

“So,” Zuko says, looking away from the paper, hoping that the words might come more naturally. They don’t. “The Red Lotus was developing a poison that they wanted to use against the avatar in some sort of grand uprising? They wanted to kill Aang as a beginning of a massive overthrow of the ruling class and-“ he glances at Sokka, who’s watching him intently- “government officials, I guess. It was supposed to force Aang into the avatar state so that they could kill him and end the avatar cycle for good.” 

“But Sokka’s not the avatar,” Katara points out. She’s standing by Sokka, her hand resting on his shoulder. Sokka sits on the edge of his bed and tries not to look pained from the grip she has on him. “So what would it do to him?”

Zuko sighs. He feels unbelievably awkward just standing there, debriefing, and he begins to pace from the door to the fireplace and back again. He knows it’s distracting, and Sokka’s told him it doesn’t look professional many times, but he can’t help it. “The idea was that the poison would put Aang’s body through extreme stress so that it would have to revert into the avatar state in order to save him. But since you’re not the avatar and you’re not dead yet…” he stops pacing, looks at the mantle. At the little knickknacks Sokka’s accumulated there over the years. Trinkets and keepsakes and the pocketknife Zuko used that morning to cut an apple. “I can only assume the poison wasn’t too developed yet, maybe not as potent as they wanted the final product to be.”

“What’s going to happen to him?” Katara reiterates. Her voice is low and hard. Zuko tries not to feel afraid.

“My guess is that it will just… wear out Sokka’s body until it gives up. Keep exhausting it, trying to get it to that breaking point where it would theoretically resort to using the avatar state as a failsafe, but in Sokka’s case…” words seem too difficult. Zuko looks down at the ground, at his shoes on the smooth stone floor, at the cracking fire before him. It’s deathly quiet in the room, save for the fire. It burns merrily on, unaware of the conversation being held. “In Sokka’s case, that would just be… it.”

There’s a long moment of sickeningly painful silence. The fire blazes on and Zuko sees the room like an outside observer; he doesn’t quite focus on any one thing, rather takes in the scene as a whole with a sort of vague disassociation. Toph is sitting in the armchair and Sokka is sitting on the bed and Katara is standing next to him but Zuko doesn’t really connect any of those dots- they’re just people scattered around the room, listening to Zuko deliver a death sentence. 

Then Sokka laughs.

“It’s kind of funny,” he says, his mouth quirked in a grin but his eyes stony. “They were trying to get Aang but they got me instead. I’m sort of the antithesis of the avatar, right? Like, he’s, you know, the avatar, and I’m just the boomerang guy. Bang-up job the Red Lotus did, I say.”

Nobody reciprocates Sokka’s humor. Katara looks positively crestfallen, and Toph’s face looks like she ate something sour. 

Zuko folds his notes up and slips them back into his pocket. He feels lighter, by a fraction of an ounce, now that he’s told everyone. Maybe the weight has just transferred to his stomach, because it feels like he’s swallowed a rock. Sokka sways slightly where he sits, and Katara’s grip keeps him upright. Zuko feels ill. “I’m going to talk to the healers and give them this new information. Hopefully they’ll know what to do. And Katara-”

“Of course,” she interrupts, her knuckles nearly white on Sokka’s shoulder. 

There’s another long stretch of silence as everyone takes in the news, tries to make sense of what may be Sokka’s impending mortality. Sokka’s face is pale, and the steady beat he’s swaying at falters once more. Katara lets go of his shoulder and helps him lie down; nobody acknowledges his grimace of pain. Katara sits on the side of the bed and holds Sokka’s hand, and Zuko knows if it was anyone other than his sister he would be pissed at being babied like that. Instead he just rests his free hand on his bandages and Zuko watches his chest rise and fall, deep, steady breaths that Sokka thinks will help with the pain. It doesn’t look like it works. 

“Fuck this,” Toph says suddenly. Her voice resounds through the room like the sound of cracking ice, successfully shattering the tenseness in the air. “We’re in a palace. I say we break into the royal reserves, get smashingly drunk, and deal with this tomorrow morning.”

Sokka barks a laugh that makes Katara jump. “Agreed.” 

Katara frowns, but nods. “I won’t get in your way.”

So Zuko leads Toph to the cellar, where she sniffs each bottle before tucking a few under her arm and going back up to Sokka’s bedroom. It’s quiet in the palace; empty and cold. Toph’s bare feet pad along the stone floors, and the sound makes her seem so many years younger than she is. They haven’t grown up, not really, Zuko thinks. They became adults in the war, for better or for worse, and there are moments between their many duties when they seem all at once to be teenagers. 

When they open the door, Katara is using her waterbending to heal Sokka. Or maybe not heal- the wound looks just as decimated and discolored as it did before- but she’s doing something. Sokka’s eyes are closed, and for the first time since he was injured his face is free of the knot between his eyebrows. 

The door creaks closed behind them, and Katara pulls the glowing water away, sloshing it into a waterskin at her side. Sokka sighs unintentionally, but doesn’t open his eyes. “You’ve got to fire your shitty healers, Zuko,” he says. 

“I couldn’t really make the injury any better,” Katara admits, her mouth drawn, “but I could at least alleviate some of the pain.”

“You’re my favorite sister,” Sokka breathes. 

Katara bats him on the head. “I’m sure it was a tough contest.”

Toph’s arms are full, so she stomps her foot to get the siblings’ attention. “We brought wine,” she announces. “If we’re going to do this, let’s do this.”

And when Zuko awoke this morning, he didn’t expect the day to end in dark glass, darker liquid, flying corks narrowly missing treasured possessions. He didn’t think he would be catapulted back into his younger years, of hiding in servant’s quarters during balls and banquets, getting roaringly drunk with his friends to take off the edge of being a teenage Firelord. 

Sokka is a happy drunk. He giggles between drinks, his laughter coming in jolts, nearly spilling wine all over his sheets. He makes kissy noises at Zuko when they drink out of the same bottle. 

He’s seen them all drunk before, but it seems different now. He’s never seen them _drink away their worries_ before. It seems more poignant, somehow, that Sokka gets giggly and Katara gets weepy and Toph gets loud. Or loud _er_. Zuko knows that he gets weird when he’s drunk, quiet and stare-y. Mai has told him so on many occasions. He’s staring at Sokka when Katara decides to start telling a story from their childhood, a woman who lost her love and became a seabird or something. Zuko’s not listening. Everything feels distant, the words sloshing around in his head like he’s underwater. He used to play games at the beach with Azula, where they would scream messages at each other beneath the waves and see what they could hear. That’s what it feels like now, except Katara is telling a long-winded tale that Zuko has no interest in, and he’s not sitting in the ocean with his sister, he’s sitting perched awkwardly on the armrest of Toph’s chair and staring at Sokka. 

Sokka’s entranced in the story, all wide eyes and engaged nodding. He inserts unfunny quips that everyone laughs at. He doesn’t wince in pain with every interjection, he seems not to be in pain at all. And Zuko knows, logically, that it’s just the numbing effect of the alcohol taking hold, but it reassures him a great deal to know that Sokka’s no longer in pain. Maybe whatever Katara did with her ‘water magic’ really made a difference. 

Katara finishes her story and Sokka launches into one of his own, a trumped-up war story that all of them were there for, but none of them call him out on his inaccuracies. Sokka’s just making shit up, going on about fighting combustion benders _and_ the full Fire Nation navy with one arm chi-blocked by Ty Lee, but it seems so unremarkably unimportant that he get the details right that everyone just listens, smiles along, and offers their own wild additions as they go.

They get drunker and drunker until they run out of wine and Zuko has to go back down to the cellar, nearly tripping over his own feet on the way down the stairs. 

When he returns Sokka is reciting poetry.

Zuko’s not quite sure, actually, whether he’s reciting or making it up, but he doesn’t recognize the poem and he can hardly understand what Sokka’s saying because every line is punctuated with wild laughter, muddling the words at the end of every sentence. He picks out some vague ideas: a soldier, a garden, the word ‘rust.’ A love torn apart over time. What he can make out is beautiful, and Zuko can imagine how powerful Sokka’s voice would be if he wasn’t giddy and flushed red from the wine. Zuko’s kind of taken aback at how Sokka hogs the spotlight, emboldened by alcohol. He’s always been big in the theatrical sense of the word, unafraid to take up space, but every time Zuko turns away Sokka tells a story or makes a joke or reads a poem, demanding the attention of the gathered crowd. 

Zuko could watch him for hours.

They go on like that through the night, until the moon is shining high above them, sending white light pouring in through the windows. Sokka is tired, anyone can tell as much, but he doesn’t acknowledge it. He talks through yawns and nobody mentions the way his eyes droop. They pity him, and it makes Zuko mad. 

Katara turns in first. She stumbles out the door at about one in the morning, offering goodbye in the form of tight hugs and a kiss to Sokka’s temple. Toph follows an hour or so later. And then it’s just Zuko and Sokka, relishing the quiet of the sleeping palace. 

Sokka’s turned to sit at the head of his bed, holding his pillow to his chest, looking out the window. Zuko’s taken Toph’s chair. He’s come to think of it as her chair, just in the few days she’s been at the palace. Sokka rests his chin on his hands and watches the moon- Zuko watches Sokka.

“That was a nice poem you read,” he says, just to fill the space.

Sokka hums in acknowledgement. “Thank you.”

“Did you write it?” 

He laughs gently. The wine, for the most part, has run its course. “No. I found it in a poetry book in Ba Sing Se a while ago. I think I have it somewhere back in the city, if you want to read it yourself.” 

“I liked how you did it,” Zuko says. “I don’t think a book could compare.”

“I appreciate the compliment, but you don’t have to flatter me. I know I suck.” Sokka turns his gaze away from the window to look at Zuko head-on. “You can go to bed if you want, you know. You don’t need to stay up for me.”

“I know,” Zuko answers, feeling the hollow sensation of exhaustion settle in his chest, “but I want to.”

Sokka grins and shakes his head. “Well, I _don’t_ want you to. It’s alright if I pull an all-nighter, but I desperately don’t want to see the effects of a sleep-deprived Firelord.” 

“You really don’t, I promise you that.” Zuko can’t help but smile, and Sokka beams like he’s won an argument. “Fine, I’ll go. I’ll be back in the morning.”

Zuko stands, looks down at Sokka curled on the bed that isn’t even his own, the bed that was made expressly for the visiting dignitaries like him, but that Zuko can’t imagine housing anyone else now that Sokka’s blood has been spilled on the sheets. “Will you be alright?”

Sokka’s grin falters, but he reaches out and takes Zuko’s hand in his own, his fingers cold, colder than anyone in the Fire Nation. “You know I will.” Zuko begins to turn away, but Sokka’s grip tightens. “Hey,” he says softly. “It’s going to be fine.”

“I know,” Zuko answers. He can barely hear himself over the blood rushing in his ears, but Sokka must hear it because he smiles like one would to an old lover, gentle and kind. “Sleep well, Sokka.”

“I’ll see you in the morning.”

~

Zuko decides, on the first official day of Sokka’s dying, to bake a pie. Or, maybe that’s not the best way to describe it. Maybe there’s a more tasteful description, like “the first day since they found out Sokka may be dying, although he may not be.” But it seems too flimsy, thinking of it like that. It’s easier to think of it as dying, and if Sokka pulls through Zuko can be pleasantly surprised. 

He feels heartless, having to compartmentalize Sokka’s potential death like this. He remembers being a child, overhearing Father and various government officials whisper about how to handle the inevitability of the aging Azulon’s death. And Zuko had never been a fan of his grandfather, but it still felt cruel. 

Anyway. Zuko wants to make a pie. 

The cooks clear out as soon as they see him enter the kitchen. It’s always made him uneasy how they’re still afraid of him and his position, but he does have to admit it has its perks. He’s not sure if he wants anyone around as he inevitably makes an ass of himself in the kitchen. 

It’s early enough that there’s still a light haze of dew across the gardens, and as Zuko walks along picking any fruit that looks remotely good he takes in the crisp air and the way the sun glistens on each leaf. 

When he comes back into the kitchens he’s momentarily shocked at the warmth. But he lays out the jumble of fruit on a table and gets about gathering what he thinks would be necessary for making pie. There was one day, a long, long time ago, when all his friends got together for a meal, each bringing one home-cooked dish to share. And everyone else had recipes that had been handed down for generations, foods that they had made alongside their mothers, treats from their childhood. But Zuko’s mother had never made anything for him, all he had was the food that had been prepared by the palace cooks and the shitty rations they had scrounged up on the ship. But Zuko is anything but a quitter, so he throws himself fully in the process of making a pie and doesn’t allow room for reminiscing and bitterness. 

It’s actually really nice making the pie, Zuko realizes. For the past few days his mind has just been a constant tempest, and it’s very grounding to have a task as simple as washing, peeling, and slicing fruit. It’s easy. Wash, peel, chop, put in the bowl. There’s no reason to ruminate on mortality or try to think of ways to counteract a poison that by all accounts has already entered the bloodstream. He just puts his head down and works, and he’s bound and determined to make the best pie in the four nations, unmarred by anxiety and stress. He finishes preparing the fruit and finds a recipe for pie crust hidden deep in the bowels of the kitchen, a well-worn scrap of paper tucked between a battered recipe book and a sack of rice. And maybe making the crust isn’t as mind-numbingly easy as the fruit, but constantly darting back and forth across the kitchen to gather ingredients keeps his mind occupied enough that he simply doesn’t have the mental capacity to think of anything else. 

By the time the kitchen is fully washed in morning sunlight the fruits are sitting, cut up and mixed thoroughly, in a bowl to Zuko’s side. Before him lies the crust, which has emerged from its genesis as unappetizing and slimy. His hands are covered in sticky dough, and the crust sits like a bad dream in the middle of the table. 

Suddenly it all hits him. Every thought he pushed aside as he worked comes back, sending his mind whirling off into oblivion, a thousand times faster than it was before. The crust is ruined and Sokka’s going to wake up soon, and Zuko was stupid to try and make a pie instead of just bringing Sokka an apple like he wanted. He always does this, always does things people don’t want, just because he thinks they’ll like it. Sokka’s dying, he deserves to get what he asks for. 

Zuko feels the back of his eyes burn, and he hates himself for it. He’s not a child, crying over a failed pie. He’s the Firelord. He shouldn’t be crying in a kitchen. 

But he does, he shouldn’t but he does, he can’t stop the tears from coming. He can’t stop the way his breath comes in gasps, the way his hands, covered in dough, grip the edge of the table. He can’t stop, regardless of how much he wants to. Because his best friend, one of the truest friends he’s had in his miserable life, is dying. Not maybe-dying-and-maybe-not, but almost certainly dying. He’s not a fool. He’s the Firelord, he’s an adult, and he knows that Sokka is dying. Because Sokka wasn’t there when Zuko talked to The Aspen, didn't see the grim way she frowned when he explained Sokka’s predicament. Sokka’s trying in vain to pretend that none of this is real, and everybody’s humoring him, and it’s driving Zuko crazy. He can’t keep shouldering all this, he just can’t. 

And he knows it’s only been three days. He doesn’t know how much longer he can continue this. 

There’s a knock at the door, and Zuko frantically wipes his eyes with a flour-covered cloth. A messenger, a young boy named Ikano, or maybe just Ikan, steps in the kitchen nervously. He looks as though he knows he doesn’t belong here, and seeing the Firelord disheveled from baking and tears doesn’t make him look any more comforted. He bows, not quite low enough as is proper, but that’s not the kind of thing Zuko has ever cared about. “Firelord,” he says. “The avatar is in the throne room.”

That’s a surprise. The avatar is supposed to be in the Earth Kingdom, working on a treaty. It can’t be good that he just… showed up in the throne room without warning. Zuko sighs and looks down at his work, the soggy fruit and the ruined crust. “Bring him here.” 

With the time Zuko knows it will take for Ikano to get from the kitchen to the throne room and back, he’s able to attempt to gather himself. His face is streaked with flour from the dirty cloth, and he tries to brush it off with his fingers, which only makes it worse. But he can feel the endless stream of tears slow, leaving his eyes dry and burning. It’s humiliating, trying in vain to stop crying in the middle of the palace kitchens. He knows Aang won’t judge him, but he can’t help but worry he will. That’s just how he is.

Zuko’s been in this palace long enough to know exactly when he’ll hear returning footsteps, and they come right on cue. Ikano gently eases the door open, and Aang comes in like a tornado. “Katara sent me a telegraph, I came as soon as I heard. Zuko, how are you?”

Distantly Zuko hears the soft sound of the door closing as Ikano disappears off into the hallway. His eyes begin to burn again. Aang’s still wearing the robes he wears on official avatar business, so Zuko’s really inclined to believe he truly did drop everything and come to the Fire Nation as soon as he heard the news. The kitchen is hot; behind him, the flame beneath the stove burns happily away. Aang seems to take stock of Zuko, of the disastrous kitchen, of the flour streaked across Zuko’s cheeks. “What are you doing?” He asks gently.

Zuko’s mouth doesn’t form the words for a few moments and when it does, they come out cracked and upturned, like a question. “Baking a pie?” 

Aang lets out a breath. He looks worn down. “Oh, Zuko,” he murmurs, and pulls him into a hug.

It’s everything Zuko has ever wanted. It’s not the first time Aang has hugged him, not by a long shot, but in this moment he feels more at peace than he ever has, cradled in Aang’s arms. He feels suddenly like a child, like when he would run to his mother over a scraped knee or a scolding. The tears that had been lurking behind his eyes begin to move across his vision, getting caught in his eyelashes. 

Aang is taller than Zuko, but not by much. Zuko rests his chin in the crook of Aang’s shoulder and it’s such a rapid disconnect from what he would have pictured his life as back when he was a teenager: crying into the eyes of the avatar over the life of a Southern Water Tribesman. It’s that thought that makes him cry more than anything. “We’ll figure something out,” Aang says into Zuko’s hair. “I’m the avatar, someone will want to help. We’ll figure it out, we’ll save him.”

Zuko’s breaths only come in painful jabs. “Please don’t,” he whispers. 

Aang nods and holds Zuko tighter. 

When they start to hear birdsong outside the window they separate and finish the pie. More flour makes the dough less sticky, and Aang assures him the fruits will taste excellent together. They bring it up to Sokka when it’s done and Zuko tries not to notice the way Sokka looks disappointed that Zuko didn’t come alone with another apple like he said he would. He seems happy to see Aang, but Zuko can’t help but burn with the knowledge that he let Sokka down. 

The pie turns out alright, but Sokka makes Zuko promise to never try his hand at baking again and to leave the job to the palace cooks; Zuko heartily agrees. They eat and the girls come and it’s a wonderful little reunion. Aang and Katara share a kiss that makes Sokka make fake vomiting sounds that no one thinks are particularly funny. 

Zuko doesn’t pay much attention to the work he does for the rest of the day. His mind spins out of control but sometimes snags on a thought, like the way Aang held him in the kitchen or the way Sokka said ‘it’s going to be fine’ the night before. 

So Zuko just drifts until mealtimes, when he reconvenes with the others in Sokka’s room and feels, for a fleeting moment, a respite from the madness of his head when Toph makes a snide remark, or when Katara says something that’s not supposed to be a joke, but everyone laughs anyway. When they let themselves be young. 

Sokka sits and chats, eats and laughs, and he looks like his father. 

The healers come back at night and tell Sokka he’ll be able to move around fully in a day or two, and there’s a second of uplift in the little room. 

And by all accounts Zuko should feel happy, but he laughs and teases and grins and feels entirely empty beneath it all. It’s an act, just to keep everyone going. He’s not sure how well he sells it.

The night comes to an end and Katara asks Zuko to walk her back to her room. In the hallway, their footsteps echoing on the stone, she breathes like it’s a directed insult. “Don’t think I didn’t notice how sullen you were all night,” she tells him outside her door. It’s the avatar’s room, technically, but they share it and the avatar is currently telling a long story about an Air Nomad festival of some sort back with Sokka, so it’s just Katara’s for now. “You could at least try a little harder to not be such a grouch.”

Zuko sighs. It’s late, and he’s tired. He’s too tired to have this argument. “What’s the point?” He says. “I’m done with pretending everything’s alright. Why bother putting on a happy face when Sokka’s as good as dead?”

And Katara shoves him, one hand on each shoulder, like they’re children in a fight over the last piece of dessert. Zuko stumbles backward and hits the wall. It hurts in a distant sort of way. “How _dare_ you?” Katara hisses, putting her face right up to his. He can see every color in her eyes. “My brother is not as good as dead. He is _alive_ , and we’re going to keep it that way as long as we can.” She pokes a finger into his chest, a sharp jab right above his heart. “And even if he does die in a week or a year or whenever, it doesn’t matter! He’s alive _right now_ , and he deserves everything that we, as his friends, can give him. He’s not some rotting corpse, he’s our family. He’s _Sokka_.”

“I’m sorry,” Zuko chokes out.

“Can it,” Katara bites back. She steps away from him and faces the bedroom door, wrapping her arms around herself like a child. “I don’t want your apologies. Just… don’t hold yourself back, alright? Don’t make yourself miserable. Spirits know we’re going to have enough pain in our lives in due time, we don’t need to force the inevitable.” 

Zuko’s mouth is unbelievably dry. Katara’s shoulders shudder as she breathes in and out. “You’re right,” he says.

She shakes her head and laughs a little bitterly. “I always am, Firelord.” Katara opens the door and turns back to him, half in the bedroom and half out. “Get some sleep, Zuko. You look like shit.”

Zuko barely has time to offer a vague smile back before the door is slammed shut and Zuko is left alone in the cavernous hallway, feeling a little less empty than before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'ello govnah welcome back  
> if you're reading this ily be my bestie and please comment i'll give you my firstborn  
> also i think i've decided to post every other thursday, what do y'all think


	3. Sokka II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zuko gets mad, festivals are had, and Sokka comes to a realization.

_Only in sleep Time is forgotten —_  
_What may have come to them, who can know?_  
_-Only In Sleep, Sara Teasdale_

Here’s the worst thing about dying: it’s actually really boring.

Sokka has been officially dying for about a week now, and it’s starting to get annoying. He’s able to move around now at least, finally allowed to walk to places farther than the bathroom. Within a few days he’s up and going, trying to get back in the swing of things as quickly as he can.

Because odds are, he’s not going to die. They’re going to find a cure or his body’s just going to do its job and fight off the poison and he’s going to be right as rain in a month or so. That’s what’s most likely going to happen. So he doesn’t want to put life on hold for some stupid stab wound, he wants to keep moving forward so that once he’s better, he can jump right into things. Too much is happening to be wallowing in self-pity, Sokka knows that. He’s intimately cognizant of everything going on politically, he’s well aware that they’re making _history_ in Republic City as he speaks. He can’t just let that pass him by because he was bedridden for a couple days, he’ll never forgive himself if he loses his council seat or can’t vote on the nomination for the first ever president. 

So as soon as he can he gets up and starts moving: he goes on walks around the palace gardens, he stretches as much as he can without pulling at the stitches, he does minimal exercise. He won’t let himself fall behind. 

Every morning, ever since that first day when Aang arrived, Zuko comes before anyone else is awake and shares an apple with Sokka. It’s kind of bizarre how much it affects Sokka, just the act of sitting in calm silence and eating an apple. But it’s really, really nice. Zuko uses Sokka’s pocketknife and he always cuts the apple into perfect little crescent moons and they talk about nothing, but that’s what makes it so wonderful. They’re not the Firelord and a Councilman, they’re not teenage war heroes, they’re not discussing anything of importance, they’re just two friends sharing food. Gran-Gran always used to say that sharing a meal was one of the most powerful things a person could do. It could form alliances and it could break them. You can bake poison into a dinner just as easily as you can add love. Sokka knows that his grandmother was a wise woman, but he wonders if she knows how dear he holds the simple act of a sunlit breakfast. They don’t tell anyone about their daily apple, because they both know that if they said anything everyone else would want to join in and the magic of the morning would be broken. It’s not that Sokka doesn’t like his friends, he would never think that, it’s just that… it’s special, his little tradition with Zuko. It’s special. 

Sokka rejoins society piece by piece as the week goes on. First he starts taking meals in the dining room as opposed to his bed, which he’s ashamed to say he’s kind of bummed about. It was nice to have everyone huddled around him, sharing one big platter of food like back in the South. He joins meals, and then he moves to spend his days in the library instead of his room. Zuko begins to bring more and more work to him, and Sokka accepts it with ferocity. Even just a few days in bed with nothing to do but waste time made him feel absolutely brain-dead, and he’s more than grateful to have actual responsibilities. He works out with the healers that he’ll return to the city at the end of the week, once everyone’s sure he can handle it. Katara does her utmost to heal at least the outward injury, and she does greatly speed the process of the skin closing up and the discoloration lessening until it’s almost like he was never stabbed in the first place. Other than, of course, the festering poison in his body that could kill him at any given moment.

He tries not to think about that.

On the last day before he goes back to the city, Sokka takes his sword down from the wall and asks Zuko to spar. It’s one of the rare times when Zuko’s not busy, he’s just sitting and watching Sokka prepare to leave. He doesn’t have a lot to do, given that most of his clothes and things are back at his apartment. It’s just little things, like packing books and work materials and cleaning like Katara told him to so the room isn’t messy when he returns. Sokka reaches over the fireplace mantle and lifts his sword from the hooks on the wall built expressly for the purpose of holding his weapon for all to see. It’s a bit sad and a bit reassuring at the same time, seeing what once was such an integral part of what he carried sitting as little more than decoration. Sokka doesn’t need to bring a weapon wherever he goes anymore. But it still feels natural to him, holding the hilt in his hand. He swings the sword experimentally, narrowly missing the wall and adding to the handful of scratches that he considers his own touch of personalization to the room. 

Zuko looks at him, then down to his hand tight around the hilt, then back up with a confused pull to his brow. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

Sokka shakes his head. He won’t let his good spirits drop, not today. “Come on. I’m fine, see?” He does a stupid little jig, but true to his words his side doesn’t hurt, not even a twinge. Katara’s been a real blessing, and on days like this he would give her the world. “I’ve been cooped up for a week. I need to get my blood flowing.”

Zuko chuckles. “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”

“Inside my body,” Sokka clarifies, slicing his sword through the air. It whistles pleasantly. “Blood flowing inside my body. You know what I meant.” 

“I’m still not sure if we should be doing something of that… intensity. You only started walking a few days ago.”

“I _could’ve_ walked sooner,” Sokka argues. He paces back and forth a bit, just to prove his point. “They wanted to keep me in bed for some damn reason.” 

“You’re acting like a child,” Zuko says. “We should listen to the healers.”

“Tui and La,” Sokka groans. “Are you hearing yourself? Like you’ve never done something that’s been ‘advised against.’” 

“Sure, when I was a teenager? Usually that ended with me getting my ass beat.” Zuko’s getting pissed, he can tell, but Sokka’s getting mad too. 

Just because Sokka’s mother is dead doesn’t mean the spot is open for Zuko to take up.

“How about I let you win?” Sokka teases, twirling his sword once more for good measure. 

Zuko doesn’t take the joke. He just frowns and stands, pressing a hand to his temple like Sokka is singlehandedly giving him a headache. “Agni, Sokka, I’m not going to spar with you!” He blurts. “You just started to get better, and I know for a fact you’re still weaker than usual. I don’t want you to pull at your stitches, I don’t want you to tire yourself out, and I don’t want you to get hurt. Just trust me, okay? We can spar whenever I see you next.”

“Fucking- spirits!” Sokka yells, and he swings his sword out in front of him. It lodges in one of the bedposts, sticking out parallel to the ground. He tugs at it once, then leaves it. “Stop treating me like I’m made of glass! I’m _fine_ , Zuko. Katara worked her magic water on me, my stitches are practically all healed by now. I can do it, I can handle one stupid sparring match! You’re all- you’re all acting like I’m going to keel over at any moment, and the healers are just throwing up their hands and saying that they can’t do anything, and you’re all just going along with it. How about you trust me, huh? The one who actually got stabbed? If I say I’m fine, maybe you should fucking believe it!” 

Zuko’s jaw works. Sokka kicks the bed, and his sword clatters to the floor. He bends down to pick it up and throws it on his bed. He’ll have to wrap it before he leaves, but that’s a problem for later. When he’s done seething. Zuko looks down at the floor, his mouth all drawn up like he ate something sour. “I understand how you feel,” he begins.

“Do you?” Sokka interrupts. “Because right now it sure doesn’t seem like it.”

Zuko sighs, and he’s back to looking pissed. Sokka preferred it when he looked ashamed. “Fine. Maybe I don’t understand how you feel. If you’re really dying to spar, go find Toph or someone. Just not me.” Neither of them comment on the wordplay; it seems in bad taste. “I’m just trying to keep my head above the water, Sokka. We all are. And I think you need to try and give us the benefit of the doubt.” He dusts off his robes and moves toward the door, shoulders pulled up almost to his ears. “I wish you safe travels, I’ll see you at the harvest festival.” 

Spirits, Sokka could kill him. Just reach over and strangle him with his own bare hands. After all that, after acting like Sokka’s a baby who doesn’t even know how getting hurt works, Zuko’s not even going to say goodbye before he leaves? All he has to offer is a lukewarm ‘safe travels?’ 

“See you, I guess.” Sokka’s pretty sure Zuko can hear how his voice quakes. 

The door closes slowly behind Zuko, and Sokka watches it with a detached sort of disdain. 

So that’s how it’s going to be. Zuko is going to be walking on eggshells around Sokka, and everyone else too from the sound of it. He picks up his sword and finds the fabric he wraps it with in the bottom of a trunk of old clothes and he’s about to put the sword away before his eye catches on the mark on the bedpost, a slash the length of his index finger and just deep enough to leave a dark gash in the wood. Something stirs in Sokka’s chest. He feels the leather of the hilt in his hand, feels a brush of wind on the back of his neck from the open window, and steps back into fighting stance.

One hit, two hits, five, twenty. Mark after mark on the bedpost. Sokka’s chest heaves as he reaches for breath, his mouth open and dry and his forehead smeared with sweat. He watches with a vindictive pleasure as he mangles the bedpost, the wood cracking and splintering under his blade. He keeps swinging until his throat burns and his arms ache, until the bedpost looks almost chewed. 

He lets his arms fall, the tip of the sword just hitting the floor. He gasps for air as if he’s just run the length of the caldera and he resolutely doesn’t wonder if Zuko might have been right not to spar with him. He’s not weak. He’s not.

If Sokka sits as he wraps his sword and tucks it into his travel gear, that’s nobody’s business. The ache in his side is back, just a little pain that feels like divine vengeance. 

Toph leaves for Republic City with him, and they all hug on the docks in front of the waiting boat ready to bring them back to the city. Zuko’s embrace feels a little stiffer than others’, but Sokka doesn’t say anything, just sets his jaw and keeps moving. Aang tells Sokka that he’ll think healing thoughts every day and Sokka tells Katara that she needs to bring Bumi next time they all meet. How the kid will turn out halfway decent without a little interference from his uncle is beyond Sokka. If there are two things a growing boy needs in his life, it’s a good sense of humor and someone to teach him how to use a weapon. He tells Katara such and she says, “I thought it was supposed to be vegetables and a good night’s sleep. Well, what do I know?” 

It’s a cool and cloudy day, and as the boat cuts through the water a mist whips up and hits Sokka’s face, the cold, hard droplets of water stinging his cheek in a way that reminds him of home. There’s so much different on this boat than if he were in the South- there’s no snow blanketing the horizon, the boat doesn’t maneuver past chunks of floating ice- but at some point over two decades the boat ride from the Fire Nation to Republic City became just as familiar, noting each landmark they pass like a second nature. 

When they were younger, Toph would cling to Sokka’s arm anytime they weren’t on solid ground. Everyone understood- she couldn’t “see” on the water or in the sky, and with the kind of crazy shit they were always up to during the war, it was understandable that some kind of stability was required. Now she just sits by the bow in a stiff-backed chair, not quite looking out at the water but with her face angled toward the spray. If life were a play that would be a metaphor, Sokka decides, for growing up. Toph still can’t see on the water, but she simply doesn’t care anymore. No one’s going to strike the little steamboat down, and no one will dare surprise her. She’s not a little girl anymore. Everyone knows what she’s capable of now. 

When they touch down in the harbor, the city welcomes Sokka in its noise and chaos. He never would have considered himself an urban man before moving in permanently, but now anything beyond the city limits seems quiet and foreign to him. It’s an instant kind of elation, stepping off of the docks and hearing the chatter of pedestrians, the clatter of carriage wheels on the uneven roads, various shouts from sailors as they prepare to set off. It pleases him to know what turns to take to get anywhere, what alleys to avoid, and what restaurants serve the best Water Tribe grub. Toph moves about the city like she commands it, which she does, but Sokka travels like the city is a dear lover, an old friend that he knows intimately. They walk together for a while, until Toph splits off at the police station and Sokka continues a few blocks down to his home. 

It’s modest compared to what his friends have; even Toph has a sizable place above the station. It’s really nothing more than a small apartment, the top floor of a tenement building in the center of town. He could have gotten a more luxurious house on the outskirts of the city, but Sokka prefers to be right in the thick of it. He’s ten buildings away from the Council building and five away from the cheapest, yet most delicious, tea shop in the city. It’s called the _Flying Fish_ and it’s fantastic. Sokka prides himself on his proximity to the city; Aang and Katara sequester themselves away on Air Temple Island and Zuko stays with them on the rare occasion when he visits; he doesn’t like crowds. Toph is too feared to truly be a part of the beating heart of Republic City, but Sokka interacts with every vessel of blood that flows through her veins. 

When he gets to his apartment he’s reminded of how little time has actually passed since his injury. It’s only been a week and a half that he’s been in the Fire Nation, being fawned over and pitied and fed apples in bed. There’s not even dust, and the beets he had bought before he left are just starting to look a little off. He’ll have to eat them tonight or throw them out. 

Before everyone went their separate ways, they had decided to keep Sokka’s condition on the down-low. If there’s one thing in politics more dangerous than being stabbed, it’s people thinking you’re weak because of it. So tomorrow he’ll go into work and explain how he took a week off due to an unfortunate stab wound and he won’t tell anyone about the possibility of him dying. They’ll treat him like they always have, and Sokka will secretly relish not being treated like a porcelain doll. 

But tonight he’ll use up the beets and catch up on work. He’ll put aside some food for breakfast tomorrow morning because he’ll inevitably run late for the first council meeting of the day, which is consistently at 7:30 and which Sokka consistently wakes up at 7:25 for. But right now he just wants to _sleep_. And because there’s no one telling him not to, he does.

~

It doesn’t take long for Sokka to start thinking of life in short, segmented moments. Dying is supposed to put things in perspective, but all it’s done to Sokka is make him remember. 

Little things that he had thought were long gone: dancing with Toph at the second Four Nations Banquet, her stepping on his toes, giving Aang advice on baby names, way back when they were still young, going on one date with the woman who lived the floor below him and Sokka telling her about the time he almost died on a blimp while somehow managing to leave out all the heroics and only recounting the tragic bits, leaving her nearly in tears over the fact that he had to go through all that as a teenager. 

It’s handy to file away memories as little portraits, rather than pieces of a larger puzzle. They’re easier to recall that way too. He likes pulling them out and remembering them whenever he likes, he likes being able to sit at his desk and paint a vivid picture of all of his friends sitting in a dark room in the Fire Nation royal palace, each wrestling with a traditional instrument they had never played before, laughing into the mouthpieces and fumbling over the strings. 

He begins to think of his modern life in moments as well. Things seem more poignant, somehow, if he looks at something as if it’s some grand masterpiece in that instant, not just one second in a million that will all add up to one grueling week. And then when he gets home at the end of every day he thinks back on all the little moments, the way the sunlight came in through the windows in the council chambers, the tree growing in the park across the street and how it shed leaves on the sidewalk, the way Toph threw her head back in laughter as they ate lunch.

That’s one nice thing about dying. People visit more. He used to see his friends on the chance occasion, and certainly not multiple times a week. But he gets lunch with Toph every other day and Katara gets dinner with him every Friday and Aang tries to come back to Air Temple Island every weekend. Zuko doesn’t come as often- he’s busy- but he sends letters weekly, telling stories or relaying moments of his own. He doesn’t mention swordfighting or anything of the sort. Sokka tries not to stew over it. 

He knows it’s hard.

So he takes it in moments, not in days or weeks. He doesn’t focus on how often Zuko visits but instead chooses to file away the way Zuko smiles and embraces him firmly when they meet in the way that only men can, the kind of firm embrace that should hurt. He saves the moments when Katara reaches over and steals a bite of his food during meals, the way Toph kicks him under the table when Sokka hasn’t even done anything wrong. He takes a snapshot in his mind, like an old daguerreotype, of seeing Suki for the first time in months, tries to save the muscle memory of the way his arms fly open and his voice rises an octave when he greets her, even after all these years. In the morning, when he eats frantically and races out the door, he thinks of the way Aang sings his words, little two-syllable melodies. 

Sokka’s not really sure what it’s supposed to help with, but it does.

On the flip side, segmenting life like he does means that Sokka is completely blindsided when he realizes that a month has passed. It seems like just yesterday he was lying in bed in the visitor’s wing of the Fire Nation palace, but in fact the harvest festival is in two days and the first presidential election is in three weeks and he’s been slowly healing and weakening at the same time for a while. 

Sokka’s not stupid. He got his stitches out when they were all healed, he can see that his skin is all closed up, save for a small red scar that will soon turn white and set itself into his flesh, a permanent memory of the occasion. He knows he is, outwardly, fine. But he’s not dumb, he understands what it means that he needs more sleep than he did before, that he gets out of breath climbing up to his apartment, that sometimes little black spots swim in his vision when he stands too suddenly. So maybe his body isn’t kicking the poison as efficiently as he at first thought it would. He’s living life by moments, and as long as he can make it from one moment to the next he’s doing alright. 

Sokka meets with Toph at the corner where her street intersects his and they walk, shoulder to shoulder, toward the docks. They dawdle, Sokka peeking in all the shop windows and Toph kicking a small rock, making it subtly change course when it rolls off the sidewalk. When they get to the harbor, there’s a modest sailing ship docked, sails still raised, crew still scrambling. The gangplank hasn’t even been lowered yet, so Toph and Sokka find a bench to wait at until Aang and Katara disembark. It’s a nice day, one of the last few warm days of autumn. Even though the harvest festival isn’t for a few days, the streets have already begun to be decorated in lanterns and streamers, and a constant stream of delicious-smelling smoke and steam pours from the windows of restaurants anticipating a holiday rush. 

The harvest festival began as an Earth Kingdom tradition, and as far as Sokka knows it’s still being celebrated. They never had anything like it in the South, so it wasn’t until fellow dignitaries began discussing bringing a version into Republic City that Sokka even discovered the holiday existed. From his recollection the traditions have changed a bit: the food has become a blend of cuisines from the four nations, and the date might have been shifted by a week or two. A living testament to the amalgamation of the many cultures in the city. And it’s a reason to meet with friends and eat far too much food, so Sokka enjoys it. Across from his apartment he can see a park where children go to run around like little monsters and set off firecrackers in the middle of the afternoon. 

There’s a kind of vivacity that runs through the air when everyone is preparing for a holiday. It permeates every aspect of the world: the sun shines higher in the sky, the fog lifts earlier in the morning. Lovers go on walks arm in arm. Traveling musicians come out of the woodwork, tuning their instruments on the streets. Colors seem brighter, conversation seems louder, and laughter seems more all-encompassing. If you put a knife to Sokka’s throat and forced him to choose, he would most likely say that the buildup to a festival is better than the festival itself.

A creaking from the boat brings Sokka back to the moment. They’re lowering the gangplank, and Sokka can just see the top of Aang’s head over the bulkhead. Sokka watches as that little blue arrow moves across the deck, before Aang appears in his entirety at the top of the gangplank, Katara by his side. Holding Katara’s hand is little Bumi, and Sokka can see his smile even from a distance. They light up when they see Sokka waving. He nudges Toph, who stands and waits for them to hit solid ground. Aang shoots up into the air and lands just in front of the two of them, which Sokka doesn’t think he’ll ever truly get used to. Katara’s teasing laugh echoes in the wind, high and cheery. “Thanks for waiting, sweetheart!” She calls down, and Aang’s ears flush red. 

Sokka pulls Aang into a friendly hug. “You’ve got to tell me all about the Pohuai treaty,” he says as soon as they part.

“Nice to see you to,” Aang shoots back with a grin. “And we really should wait until Zuko arrives for that, he knows more about it than I do.” 

“Party pooper,” Sokka pouts, but they both know he doesn’t mean it.

Katara makes it down the gangplank and as soon as they hit ground Bumi rushes forward, little feet pounding against the wooden pier, and latches his arms around Sokka’s leg. “Uncle Sokka!” He crows. 

Sokka ruffles his hair. “Hey there, Boomerang Junior.”

Bumi sticks out his tongue but doesn’t let go of Sokka’s leg. “That’s not my name and you know it.”

“I guess I just forgot again, little man,” and it’s a joke they’ve had since he was born; Sokka realizes with a start it’s a joke they’ve had for five years. 

When Katara reaches them Bumi releases his vice grip on Sokka and returns to his father, who scoops him up and sits him on his shoulders. Bumi wraps his arms around Aang’s head and Aang only looks a little fondly disgruntled. Katara pulls Sokka into a hug. “Before you say anything,” she says before they even drop the embrace, “if you tell me I’m bigger than when you last saw me, you’re going to end up with a very wet hairdo.” 

“I wasn’t going to,” Sokka says, crossing his arms defiantly. “I was going to say you look lovely.” And she does. She still looks young, almost; she hasn’t changed her hairstyle and she hasn’t lost the gentle curve of her jaw. Her face, unlike the rest of them, hasn’t hardened over time. Instead she stands, a gentle flush on her face, like a statue of grace and power. 

“I agree,” Toph adds, as Katara moves to greet her with a hug of their own. “You’re looking positively radiant.” 

Katara swats her arm.

“Chief Toph,” Bumi says from perched atop of Aang’s shoulders, because Toph doesn’t like being called ‘aunt,’ “are we going to get to see Lin?”

Sokka turns to her and grins. “Yeah, Chief. Are we?”

Toph sighs, but it hitches a little with laughter. “We are. I swear, Sokka, I might just give her to you. I don’t think anyone loves her more than you.”

“I’d like that,” he says. “She has your hands, you know.” 

Toph laughs loudly this time, open and joyful, and slings an arm around Sokka’s shoulders. It’s a little awkward considering she’s a good foot shorter, but it’s never stopped her before. “That’s such a weird thing to notice. You do realize that, right?” 

“I’m not wrong,” is all Sokka says. 

There’s something undeniably world-shaking about watching the friends you’ve had since childhood have kids. It’s so unsettling, seeing them lose the baby fat from their cheeks, seeing them get jobs and learn to live as adults, seeing them coo over their own babies and have someone to take care of other than a ragtag little family formed during wartime. He doesn’t think he’ll ever really get over it. And maybe, depending on the efficiency with which the poison rips through his body, he’ll never have to.

Anyway. It’s late afternoon, while the sun still teeters in the sky, and Suki will arrive in an hour, give or take. Zuko will come at dinnertime. Everything will be fine. 

They walk back to the park across from Sokka’s apartment. In two days it’ll be a colorful little square of chaos, alight with the excitement of the festival. Now, though, it’s quiet. A few people are stringing lanterns between the trees, and a few couples only a few years older than Sokka’s friends watch children run rampant on the grass. Bumi bolts off to join them, immediately being welcomed into the group without a word in that easy way so unique to childhood. Katara and Aang sit intertwined on a park bench across from Sokka and Toph, who’ve had practice sitting on these benches. They do it often. A gentle breeze blows through, rustling the dry and reddening leaves, and it still holds the faint smell of salt from the harbor. The sun is comfortingly warm on his skin in the way it only ever is in the Earth Kingdom; the sun in the Poles is like a distant lighthouse in the sky, there but cold like an unfamiliar relative. In the Fire Nation the sun is loved, revered, but it sits over everything with a kind of oppressive heat, wet and heavy. The sun in Republic City is warm and kind and if Sokka stays out too long his skin darkens on his cheeks and arms. Aang closes his eyes and tips his head up to the sky, his arm around Katara’s shoulders, and Sokka takes a picture of the moment, hides it away for another day. 

With a sharp cry Bumi comes barreling into the picture, running right up to Sokka, yelling his name like it’s gospel. He’s wearing a heavy coat like children always do, always overdressed for the weather, their little bodies bundled up until they’re as wide as they are tall. He’s hot from running around, he explains, hands waving, but he can’t get the buttons undone. Sokka laughs good-naturedly and unbuttons his coat and as soon as it sits freely against his little chest he’s off again like an arrow from a bow. When Sokka looks up to meet Katara’s eyes she’s watching him with a fond, sad smile. She looks heartbroken somehow, and so, so proud. Sokka looks away.

“He likes you,” she says.

“Of course he does,” Sokka responds, because bluster is all he knows. “He’s like a tiny version of me.”

Katara grins. “And whose fault is that?” 

In the distance Bumi hollers something that catches all of their attention, but he’s just celebrating some little victory, a successful play in a made-up game without rules. 

Suki comes an hour later, steering a carriage in from the East, and she embraces Sokka with the same ferocity she always does. Even after everything, she’s still the same soul that he met on Kyoshi Island. They’ve gotten to the point where they can casually say that they love each other and both of them know exactly what the other means. Sometimes Sokka asks her to marry him when she brings him coffee, back when they spent more than a day every other month together. It’s alright, though. She gets it. Things change over a decade: that’s a fact they both know intimately. As the sun sets they walk back to the harbor to greet Zuko, who steps off the gangplank with a kind of sheepish dignity. When they embrace Sokka lets his hand linger on his back and Zuko understands that all is forgiven. Sokka’s missed his gentle smile, the way he holds himself around them even now, like he’s one step from falling off a cliff. They all walk to the restaurant they’ve reserved for dinner, one of the nicest in the city (they haven’t had a bad meal since they started forcing Zuko to make their reservations), their loud chatter spiraling up towards the apartments of Sokka’s neighbors; he’s looked down at groups of friends doing the same thing before, assuming they were drunks, and he wonders if any of them were war heroes like he is. 

They eat like they’re rowdy teenagers, sharing plates and aiming bean curd puffs for Toph’s open mouth. They usually miss. Katara chastises them initially, but takes a shot of her own as soon as the waiter’s back is turned. 

When they split up to go home for the night, Sokka briefly considers sleeping at Air Temple Island with the others, or maybe asking someone to stay over at his place. They would say yes if he asked, he knows. But the flash of loneliness ebbs almost as soon as it comes, so Sokka walks the last block home by himself, goes into his dark apartment and crawls into bed, the sheets cold. He’ll warm them slowly with his body heat as time passes, but he would give his left hand to get into bed and find it already comfortable, to be able to settle into someone’s arms and fall asleep immediately. 

He wakes up the next morning and the bed is warm, warm enough to make him loathe leaving it. It’s not the same as he would like, but it’s nice, at least. He goes to work same as he does every day and he almost forgets that things are different, even if temporarily. The Council is discussing the possibility of a second train station, one that’s more accessible to the folks on the outskirts of town. There’s one station in the middle of the city, but Sokka firmly believes that like the old Ba Sing Se, cities like this function on concentric rings of class: therefore, the only people who can really benefit off the train are the wealthy and powerful in the city center, the ones with personal carriages to take them where they need to be, anyway. Sokka votes yes on the second station and the Councilmen from the Fire Nation and the North vote no. A fiery- ha, get it?- debate ensues. They table the topic for another day and Sokka leaves feeling tired of the daily struggle; it isn’t until he sees a child, no older than Bumi, weaving through the streets flying a little paper flying bison kite that Sokka remembers the harvest festival is tomorrow and his friends are a small boat ride away on Air Temple Island (or, in the case of Toph, three blocks over). He goes home happier than he left.

Instead of going to a posh restaurant for dinner, they all reconvene on the island. It’s nice out, it will be all weekend, which bodes well for the festival, so they move the meal from inside the temple’s main building to a picnic outside, by the ancient spinning thing that’s supposed be an airbending tool, though Sokka’s not really sure of how getting pummeled by wooden boards would help your airbending. Aang cooks them traditional Air Nomad food, and though Sokka laments the lack of meat he really isn’t complaining, as Aang has grown into quite the chef. The sun sets slowly, almost as if it wants to give them as much time in its glow as possible. It’s more than peaceful, listening to the water lap against the shore as boats roll through the harbor. The six of them, all sitting in the dirt around one big shared meal, Appa gently lowing as he lounges in the grass, for a moment makes Sokka think that it’s wartime again, that they’ve found a moment of respite in the wildness of their lives, but when he comes back to the present he somehow doesn’t feel bothered, not like he usually does. The sun casts a gentle orange sheen over the world, making the whole world look calm and warm. When it finally retreats beyond the horizon Zuko lights candles and arranges them around so that everyone’s lit by the flickering flame, illuminating them from below, sending bizarre, twisted shadows across all of their faces. They talk until there’s nothing left to say, until Zuko bends the fire from the candles and sends it back and forth with Aang like a game of catch. 

Sokka watches the little flame as it passes from one hand to another, watches the way it twists and quivers midair. He looks up and his eyes find their way to Zuko’s face, the way his face is set in a kind of easy concentration, the same expression as when he reads budget proposals or tries to braid Katara’s hair. 

He could look at Zuko for the rest of his life, he’s sure of it. If he could, Sokka would choose to watch Zuko over anything. His face is golden in the light, perfectly sculpted and beautiful. Zuko catches the flame from Aang and twists his hand just so, and the fire fizzles out between his fingers. Something warm blooms in Sokka’s gut, a painful sort of affection, like someone reached into his stomach and squeezed. It’s not altogether unpleasant, though. He can’t complain as Zuko touches each candle with his index finger to relight it, as he reaches across Sokka’s lap and pulls back without noticing the way his hand brushes Sokka’s knee, as the thick vines grow from Sokka’s gut up to his chest.

Then they’re talking again and Suki’s telling a story about one of her warriors and Sokka pushes the feeling away. It scares him, that emotion. He’s not completely sure what it is, only knows that the vines move a little farther upwards every time he makes eye contact with Zuko. 

They part late in the early twinkling of morning and Sokka’s infinitely thankful he doesn’t have to work today. The plan is this: sleep until noon, get lunch at the smoked meat stall that’s set up on the street corner ten paces from his door, meet the others at the square in the middle of town and explore the festival from there. 

Sokka passes almost immediately as soon as his head hits the pillow. Between work and dinner and laughing so hard it feels like his ribs are breaking, he’s exhausted. And he’s cognizant of the way he’s slowly building up a constant full-body ache, it’s just something he’s going to have to deal with. 

In the few moments of awareness before slipping into sleep, Sokka wonders if he’ll dream of Yue. He hasn’t since that first night, but she had said he would be back. It was unsettling when she said it, but the more Sokka thinks back on it the more he finds it comforting. No matter what happens, he’ll have Yue; he’ll have the promise of returning, of becoming a star. Sokka rolls over and listens to his curtains rustle in the breeze and hopes he dreams of Yue.

He doesn’t.

Sokka wakes up as the sun begins to beat through the window, too high and bright to ignore. He wonders vaguely if this is how Zuko feels, rising with the sun. It kind of blows. 

It’s not noon, which kind of screws up his plans for the day, so Sokka pulls the curtains closed and falls back into bed, trying to trick himself into believing that he could possibly fall back asleep. He just lays there, staring up at the ceiling, letting his mind run wild. It’s going to be a good day, he can already tell; there are mornings when he wakes up and feels like an extra pound’s been added to his limbs, like the world is trying to pull him down into the earth. But today he feels light and energized and he might have forgotten about the nearly healed cut in his side if it hadn’t been such an all-encompassing aspect of his life for a month. 

After maybe an hour of lying still and waiting for something to happen, Sokka hears music from the street outside and decides to get up. He dresses and congratulates himself on the fact that his hands don’t shake as he buttons his shirt, not like they had yesterday. 

It’s a beautiful day: warm and bright, not a cloud in the sky, the kind of breeze that offers a slight reprieve from sweat without ruffling your hair. Sokka stops by the meat stall and doesn’t get the big lunch he was planning on but a small breakfast of some kind of smoked sausage and a tea. He eats as he walks and feels one with the city as he makes his way to meet up with the others. He passes someone that he vaguely recognizes, some minor politician who greets him with a jovial, “Councilman Sokka, how are you?” 

Sokka says, “doing well, thanks,” and believes it. 

The festival becomes more and more bustling the closer Sokka gets to the center of town. The streets are lined with vendors, hawking food and cheap keepsakes. Sokka knows that by the end of the day he’ll have bought enough trinkets to fill his and his friends’ pockets. He’ll make sure they take them home and put them up on a bookshelf or mantle to remember the day by, even Aang. Sokka knows that, even with all the talk about rejecting worldly possessions, he has a box somewhere filled with every gift Sokka’s given him. He knows that there’s a shelf above Zuko’s door in the royal bedroom full to bursting with knickknacks from festivals and craft fairs and holidays throughout the years, little memories of Sokka and the moments they’ve shared. 

A boy around Bumi’s age, give or take a year, goes running past, his little shoulder brushing Sokka’s leg. He weaves between people three times as tall as him, like a lone squirrelmouse in a sea of badgermoles. It makes Sokka smile, though he’s not quite sure why. 

The center of the city is a hub of activity, all bright colors and mingling smells of food and burning leaves and the gunpowder of the fireworks they’ll set off tonight. The square is a cacophony of voices and overlapping music from various street performers, all unwilling to cede the stage. For a moment Sokka just looks around, taking it all in. He never feels more alive then at times like this, when the world seems to be bursting at the seams, like there’s so much joy and passion out there it can’t possibly contain itself and chooses to dump it all in the lap of the people at once. Everyone’s out for the festival, new parents with babies and affectionate couples and children darting through the crowd. People his age standing and looking as he is, overdressed and underdressed and clean shaven and smiling and laughing and gazing up at the sky. Sokka doesn’t feel unique in this moment, rather a part of a larger group of humanity. He’s not Councilman Sokka, Sokka the war hero, Sokka the genius, Sokka the nonbender, none of that. He’s just one spectator at the festival, one head in the crowd dressed in Water Tribe blue. 

He spots Suki first, finds her in deep conversation with another young woman in the uniform of the Fire Nation military. Once, that sight would strike fear in Sokka’s heart. Once that would have been cause to draw weapons or run. But now he sees past the uniform, sees the woman’s long black braid and the freckles on her face. Suki laughs and Sokka sidles up next to her, poking the soft side of her neck. She yelps and turns to swat Sokka over the head. “You ass!” She makes out between giggles. 

“Just testing your skills, Sooks,” Sokka teases, and turns to the Fire Nation woman. “You’d think, as the leader of the Kyoshi Warriors, she’d want to be a little more aware of her surroundings.” 

Suki takes advantage of Sokka’s distraction by kneeing him in the stomach. 

“Who’s the ass now?” Sokka whines from the ground, now eye-level with the kid who goes scampering past and looks at Sokka like he’s a crazy person. “Spirits, take pity on a guy.” 

Suki, in her endless grace, offers a hand to help Sokka up. If Sokka’s legs shake a little as he stands, nobody mentions it. “I’m Rie. Or Captain Rie, if you care about that kind of thing,” the Fire Nation woman says. 

Sokka grins. “Believe me, I don’t.” He extends a hand to shake, and she takes it with a firm grip. “I’m Sokka. Or Councilman Sokka, if _you_ care about that kind of thing.”

“I don’t,” she says with a jolly sort of twinkle in her eyes. “I’m sure you’ve got places to be, so I won’t keep you.” 

“I’ll see you on Tuesday for lunch,” Suki says.

“You know it,” says Rie with a silly little salute. “It was nice to meet you, Councilman Sokka.”

Sokka bows the way one should for a military official, but the smiles on both of their faces make it seem like a clever joke. “Likewise, Captain Rie.”

Suki links elbows with Sokka as they move through the square, trying desperately to find any of their other friends. “So, Rie?” Sokka says, mainly to break the ice. It’s not every day a Fire Nation Captain strolls into town, and Sokka feels like a protective older brother to his city. Now that his little sister’s all grown up and arguably more mature than him (she always was, Sokka doesn’t even try to pretend that isn’t the case) he needs something to smother.

But Suki’s ears turn red in the way that Sokka’s grown intimately aware of, the telltale sign that she’s embarrassed. She grins like she’s got a secret and looks down at their feet walking in time. “Shut up.”

It takes Sokka a second to put two and two together but when he does he doesn’t even realize he's stopped moving until Suki’s elbow yanks at his, her inertia carrying them both forward. “No! Really?”

Suki pushes him, two hands against his chest, like they’re teenagers again. “None of your business.”

Sokka slings an arm around her shoulder and they start walking again. He sees a head in the distance that he thinks might be Toph and heads that way. “It absolutely is my business! When did you meet?” 

“We, uh, we co-taught a workshop for some of my new recruits a few months ago. On fighting styles between the nations.” The red has traveled to Suki’s cheeks, lighting up her face like the apples Sokka shares with Zuko.

As they draw closer, Sokka can definitely make out Toph, leaning against the wall of a small cafe, cradling Lin to her chest in an easy, casual way. “A fighting workshop? Okay, I’m painting a pretty good picture. You’re fighting, leading the youth, and you’re evenly matched with your fans and her- whatever, all hot and sweaty…”

“What the flameo are you two talking about?” Toph interrupts as Suki shoves Sokka off her. It’s a stupid expression they’ve decided to use, a kind of bastardization of Aang’s old-person slang. It’s funny mainly because it pisses Aang off. 

“Oh, nothing,” Sokka fakes innocent, “just Suki’s new lady.”

“Is she hot?” Toph asks. 

“Why do you even care?” Sokka teases. “It’s not like you could tell.”

“She’s military,” Suki answers.

Toph nods knowingly. “That’s all I need. See how easy that is, Snoozles?” 

Sokka snorts and shakes his head. “You two don’t appreciate the beauty of romance.” 

Toph frowns. “If you want to talk poetry, you find Zuko. Not me.” 

“Chief Toph!” Comes a cry from within the crowd, and they turn to see Bumi come barreling out towards their little trio. “Chief Toph,” he repeats when he reaches them, faking serious and giving her a nod, the kind the other police officers do. 

“Bumi,” she greets with the same mock gravity and curt nod. 

Bumi’s play-professional demeanor shatters as he bounces on the balls of his feet, an enormous grin splitting his face. Sokka notices he’s already got food smeared around his mouth, that kind of perpetual childhood griminess that’s impossible to try and combat. “Can I say hi to Lin?” He asks brightly. 

Toph smiles just so and leans down so that Bumi can wave to baby Lin, who’s looking with wide eyes at everything around her. She sees Bumi and is fixated on him for a moment, and he looks positively ecstatic. Toph isn’t too tall, even now, and she doesn’t have to bend far to reach Bumi’s level. Sokka takes note of this and doesn’t laugh, even though it’s kind of funny. Aang and Katara emerge from the crowd, almost literally joined at the hip, their arms crossing behind each others’ waist. Bumi, seeming to sense when his parents arrive, asks no one in particular, “how long until I can play with Lin?” 

“A few years yet,” Katara answers. “But don’t worry, the time will fly past. I promise.”

“Okay,” Bumi says, with that wonderful absolute trust of toddlers. “Uncle Sokka, can I ride on your shoulders?” 

For a split second the adults exchange a look, one that asks, ‘can you handle that?’ and the all-important, ‘is today a good day?’

“Of course, little man,” Sokka says, because he’s feeling fine and Bumi deserves to have his uncle for as long as possible. As Sokka crouches down and lets Bumi climb onto his shoulders, taking a firm hold on his tiny legs to stabilize them both, he pushes away the stinging realization that depending on how this all shakes out, Lin might not have an uncle Sokka. The incoming unnamed baby might not have an uncle Sokka. But Bumi does, and Sokka will not falter as he hoists him above the crowd. 

Bumi surveys the square like he’s the captain of a ship looking out over rough waters. He points one chubby finger to his right and yells, “I see uncle Zuko!” 

‘Uncle Zuko’ is still out of sight for the rest of them on the ground, so Sokka grins and says, “lead the way, little man.” 

Bumi steers Sokka through the mess of people until they happen upon Zuko, who looks more than relieved to have been saved by the faces of his friends. He’s got two guards, dressed in plainclothes, flanking him from behind. Bumi demands Sokka get closer and, unwilling to get down from his perch, wraps his arms around the top of Zuko’s head in lieu of a hug. It knocks the Firelord hairpiece askew, but Zuko doesn’t correct it. It glints in the morning sun. 

If Sokka embraces Zuko, he’ll knock Bumi from his shoulders, so he just claps Zuko on the back and calls it a day. It’s funny: he never used to feel so elated at reunions. The more time he spends with his friends, the more he misses them when they’re gone. 

With everyone assembled, they begin the trial of navigating the square. It’s jam-packed with people, and even their group of six constantly gets broken up by others. 

The problem is that, for as cohesive they are as friends, they are drastically different festival attendees. It doesn’t take more than five minutes for Toph to blow up at Sokka for lingering at every stall they pass. It’s not his fault, they all look so interesting. 

“I’ll stay with Sokka,” Zuko offers before Toph actively drags him away from a table covered in little wood carvings of cities. They’re really intricate, and if Sokka wants to marvel at a replica of Omashu the size of his hand he should be free too. It is a holiday, after all. “You all can go through the square at your own pace and we’ll meet you at the Iron Kettle for lunch, how does that sound?” 

Sokka shifts his attention to a tiny Ba Sing Se. The walls are so delicate, and Sokka can’t imagine being that careful with a knife. “Do they ever call you the great compromiser?” He asks Zuko.

“Uh… no.” 

“They should.” Everyone looks like they’re ready to drop kick Sokka at a moment’s notice- everyone but Zuko, who’s discreetly studying the carving in Sokka’s hand. So he says, “if Zuko really wants to stay, that plan is fine by me. Bumi, do you want to go with your parents?”

Bumi wraps his arms around Sokka’s forehead protectively. “No. I wanna stay with you.” 

Sokka can’t help but laugh. “Alrighty then. We’ll meet you for lunch.” 

Toph looks more relieved than she should to be free of Sokka’s antics, power-walking to the next vendor. She’s gotten more impatient as time has passed; gone is the girl who would spend the whole day relaxing, even with a war to win. Now she’s driven, active, always moving faster than the others when they walk together. Sokka doesn’t know how to feel about that. 

For a while, Sokka and Zuko walk in a companionable silence. Bumi talks, five-year-old babble, and they listen offhand. Sokka picks up little trinkets and hands them to Zuko to admire; they don’t pass a stall until they’ve marveled at every item on sale. They buy Republic City fire flakes, which Zuko hates because he says they’re not authentic and which Sokka loves because they’re not as spicy and a little crispier. He offers some of them to Bumi and doesn’t say anything about spoiling his appetite, because that’s simply not the role of an uncle. 

Bumi grows restless and has to come down from Sokka’s shoulders. He takes Sokka’s hand, and his short stature makes it so that he has to reach up to hold it. They’re trying to wrestle their way across the square to see a street performer juggling rocks with earthbending when Bumi tugs on Sokka’s hand and asks, “is it true you and uncle Zuko went to jail?”

“It’s a little more nuanced than that,” Zuko says at the same time that Sokka, who has his priorities a little more in check, says, “where did you hear that?”

He’s at the age of complete honesty, where he doesn’t know how completely wild what he just asked was. He continues gleefully, “my mom said if I kept taking fruit from Lanna I would go to jail. And I said that they don’t have jail for kids and she said that you and uncle Zuko went to jail when you were 15.” 

“Who’s Lanna?” Sokka asks at the same time that Zuko says, “I was 16,” because apparently factual accuracy is the only thing he cares about. 

Bumi thinks, tries to articulate who Lanna is in a way that makes sense to his little brain. “She has fruit at the store,” he explains.

“The grocer,” Zuko realizes. 

Sokka shoots him a look. “Well, we didn’t really go to jail in the way that your mom means, but you shouldn’t take fruit from Lanna anyway. You can get in trouble, and it’s not fair to Lanna.”

But Bumi doesn’t care about Sokka’s morals, he just skips a little, swinging Sokka’s hand, and says, “why were you in jail?”

“Sokka’s dad-“ Zuko begins. 

“Your grandfather,” Sokka clarifies.

“Yes, your grandfather, he was in jail and we had to get him out.” Zuko seems to debate going on, getting into the intricacies of maximum-security prisons and political prisoners and his ex-girlfriend who got them out, before deciding against it. “Did you know your uncle Sokka invented the war balloon?”

Bumi squints a little. “What’s a war balloon?”

Sokka’s heart hurts at that, but not in a bad way. Bumi will say things like that a lot, little questions that prove exactly how divorced he is from wartime, how different his childhood is than theirs. “Like the big balloon you rode in at the midsummer festival, remember?” 

“Oh,” Bumi says. His face lights up. “You invented that?” 

“He invented all sorts of things,” Zuko interjects. “He’s very smart.”

Sokka shoots him a glance, one brow lifted incredulously, and Zuko gives him an odd look of his own. “Can we go get lunch now?” Bumi asks. “I’m hungry.” 

They’re about done with the excitement in the square, and the street performer has dropped his rocks, so nobody’s really paying attention anymore. “Sure, little man,” Sokka says. “I’m sure they’ve been waiting for hours.” He throws a thumb over at Zuko. “I’m not sure how we got him to come along,” he murmurs behind his hand. Bumi giggles. 

“I like spending time with you, Sokka,” Zuko answers, unable to not take things seriously. “You too, Bumi. You’re great company.”

Bumi beams, and together they walk to the restaurant to rejoin their friends. 

As the day progresses, Sokka becomes more and more thankful that it’s a good day, stab-wise. Republic City is objectively pretty big, and they’re exploring every inch of it on foot. It’s worse than it was during the war, because back then they were younger and sprier and they had Appa to get around on. Now Appa spends his days on Air Temple Island, and Sokka is secretly a little jealous that his life is all rest and relaxation. He knows how stupid it is to be jealous of an animal, but he can’t help it. Not when his daily life is full of stress and chaos. 

But today isn’t; today is all warm sun and bright colors. It’s a truly beautiful example of that shining late fall weather, those rare days when it feels nearly like summer. The leaves on the trees, painted in the colors of sunset, drift to the ground when a soft breeze shakes the branches. 

They meet a fortune teller on the street who presses a hand to Katara’s belly and tells her that her child will be a strong, charismatic nonbender. Sokka ruffles his little sister’s hair affectionately and Toph swears that she can _feel_ Aang turn green. Suki, caught up in the joy of the day and Sokka’s historical disdain for the mystical, points to Sokka and cries, “do him! Do him!” 

The fortune teller rests a hand on Sokka’s cheek first, her wrinkled hand like Gran-Gran’s taking his temperature as a sick child. She furrows her brow and moves her hand down, presses it gently against Sokka’s wound. It’s a little awkward, having some lady feel you up, but Sokka’s a little beyond caring about that kind of thing at this point. “You’re going to die,” she says, sounding a little shocked. They all exchange nervous looks. “On an auspicious day.” 

Aang chuckles awkwardly and steers Sokka away from the fortune teller by the shoulders. “Thanks a bunch. Uh, may the spirits be kind to you!” 

Suki, who started the whole thing, bumps her shoulder against Sokka’s and snorts. And then he starts laughing, and she starts laughing, and they’re all giggling wildly about the poor fortune teller who had no idea what she walked into. Bumi laughs like he doesn’t quite understand what’s going on, his little hand gripping Katara’s, who runs a hand through his hair lovingly. Sokka looks away and tries not to hurt. 

The day slowly comes to a close, which means the festival is really just starting. They walk Bumi and Lin to the harbor, where the air acolytes are waiting on Appa to watch them on the island for the night. Bumi, exhausted from the day’s activity, hangs on Zuko’s back like a sleepy squirrelmonkey. Sokka watches them as they walk, and he’s struck with how unique Bumi’s life is without him even knowing it. He’s getting a piggyback ride from the _Firelord_ , and he doesn’t think anything of it. Their group is comprised of some of the most powerful and important people in the world, and Bumi calls them all “uncle” and “aunt.” What a life they live, the six of them and their progeny. 

After the kids have been deposited into the care of the acolytes, the adults return to a small park by the harbor to drink and let Katara rest her feet. It’s a little cooler now that the sun’s mostly set, but still warm enough to not feel quite like fall. There’s a small band on one side of the park, and they slowly make their way over to Sokka and the others once Aang starts singing. They frantically try to shush him, but he’s full of the joy of life and a little tipsy, which is a dangerous combination. The band is a couple young people, seemingly all Earth Kingdom, with traditional instruments from around the world. They’re trying to be well-versed, which Sokka can respect. 

It isn’t until they play Sokka’s favorite that things get fun. 

It’s an old song that everyone knows, the kind that they always play after dark at festivals so that the lyrics about sex and debauchery can be safely sung out of earshot of little ones. But Sokka loves it because it’s fast and catchy and also about sex and debauchery, which always makes Zuko blush a little. So maybe, like Aang, he’s drunk on the spice of life in addition to a healthy amount of wine. He simply can’t help it when his feet decide to bring him to standing and begin to dance. 

Determined to get a partner to join him, he extends a hand to Suki, who bats it away. “You’re a hazard to society,” she says with a laugh. 

He turns to Zuko next, who doesn’t move and looks at Sokka like he’s just hung the moon. Sokka moves on. Katara’s rubbing her feet and Toph thinks dancing’s just fancy stomping, so Sokka takes Aang by the hand and hauls him up with little resistance. Aang’s a good partner, and they both dance with reckless abandon, hands clasped and feet moving in time. Sokka was never good at dancing, per se, but what he lacks in skill he makes up for in dedication. The band looks more than bemused to see figures from their history classes a decade older than them dancing drunkenly to their music, but Sokka pays them no mind. He also distinctly tries not to think about what the fuck that look Zuko had given him means. 

“Didn’t you use to hate dancing?” Katara asks with an upturn to her lips when the song is done. 

“Used to,” Sokka answers, trying to hide how hard he’s struggling for breath. 

“Do you remember those traveling musicians from the Cave of Two Lovers?” Aang muses, panting a little. He doesn’t have the experience Sokka does with taking deep, measured breaths to show everyone how in shape you are. Lucky bastard. “You _hated_ them.”

“They were annoying!” Sokka argues. “But I don’t know if you know this, it’s pretty cool actually- you actually get to enjoy things when you're not, you know, trying to keep a bunch of kids from dying and save the world.” 

“Drama queen,” Katara says fondly. 

By the time the sun has completely set, opening up the sky into a vast expanse of stars, they find themselves back at Sokka’s place. They’re keeping the party going in his small apartment; apparently his next door neighbor home-brews the strongest alcohol he’s ever had in his life, and she gives them an armful of bottles without thinking twice. 

It’s only after the games and the stories and the ill-advised attempts at making cocktails that Sokka finds himself on his little balcony, sitting on the floor with his legs dangling out through the railings, looking down at the park. The lanterns that have been strung between the trees for days are finally lit, leaking a warm orange glow onto the ground beneath them. A few children are still out, running with sparklers in their hands. People who walk through the park and on the street below him fill the air with soft conversation that drifts up towards Sokka in stilted fragments. It’s beautifully peaceful, and he tries to remember this moment, tries to take it all in at once like a grand painting. 

“Hey,” says Zuko from behind. 

“Hey,” Sokka parrots. Zuko sits ungracefully at Sokka’s side, looking as though he’s climbing down a mountain just trying to mimic Sokka’s seated position. He hands Sokka a bottle, already half empty, and Sokka takes a sip. It’s not his neighbor’s brew, which he’s eternally grateful, but something gentler. “What are you doing out here?”

“Looking for you,” Zuko answers honestly. For a moment they’re silent together, like they were in the afternoon. “You’ve got quite the view out here.”

“Yeah,” Sokka says. “You don’t know what you’re missing out on in that stupid old palace.” 

And maybe he’s not really thinking straight, maybe he wouldn’t have said that at any other time, but Zuko looks at Sokka with that odd look on his face and says, “I do.”

They pass the bottle back and forth like they’re teenagers who’ve snuck contraband from their parents and watch the people below. 

“Anything interesting happening in the Fire Nation?” Sokka asks after a while, because the silence is making him antsy. 

Zuko sighs and presses his cheek against the railings. He seems so young sometimes, the weight of his role heavy on his shoulders, the incomparable burden of being thrust into a position of extraordinary political power at seventeen years old. “Nothing that would interest you. If I never hear the word ‘tariff’ again in my life it’ll be too soon.” Sokka snorts. He’s been on the Council for long enough to have the same sort of visceral hatred for trade politics as Zuko does. Zuko glances up at Sokka, his eyes glinting in the distant light of the lanterns. “How’s the election going? Who do you think is going to win?”

Sokka sits back on his hands. A gentle breeze blows through, ruffles his hair and shakes the dry leaves on the trees. “I really can’t say at this point. I think Aiguo obviously has an in with the Fire Nation, but I don’t know how reliable of a voting bloc that is. He’s more conservative, which really could go either way. I mean, I feel like Republic City is pretty progressive, but I have proof just on the Council that that’s not always the case.” He sighs. “My bet is on Siluk. He’s more affable- charismatic- and I think most people won’t be eager to vote in an old guard Fire Nation noble so soon after the war. I hate to say that I’m going to vote for Siluk just because he’s Water Tribe, but kind of I feel like I have to, you know? And I like what he wants to do with the wealth disparity and he’s more popular with the more progressive lower class, which might be enough of a majority to get him elected, but- yeah. I have no idea. It’s anyone’s call. Who are you voting for?” 

Zuko huffs out a little laugh and looks out over the park. “I’m voting for Siluk, Sokka. Obviously.” 

“Right,” Sokka says, even though it wasn’t really obvious to him, even though it should have been. “Obviously. So, Suki’s new girlfriend, huh? How about that?”

“I’m sorry, Suki’s got a girlfriend?”

“Oh, yeah! You got there after. Suki’s got a girlfriend, she’s a Fire Nation captain. She’s pretty hot, in my humble opinion.” Sokka takes a sip from their bottle, which is steadily emptying, and hands it to Zuko. “I only met her for like, a minute, but I think they’ll be good for each other. High time one of us found someone new.”

Zuko takes a long swig. He opens his mouth, seems to contemplate saying something, then closes it. He looks down at the park, where there’s a band playing a slow waltz. There are couples dancing, embracing, on the grass. “You never really told me what happened with Suki.” Sokka doesn’t say anything right away, and Zuko looks a little terrified at the lack of response. “You don’t have to- if it’s too painful, or- you know.” 

“No, no, it’s nothing like that.” Sokka tips his face up to the sky, where the stars make little pinpricks in the black fabric of the universe, the moon hanging high above them, a wan sliver. “It’s not dramatic or anything, it’s just… we just grew apart. I think we tried too long to stay who we were as teenagers, and that’s just- that’s just not a sustainable way to be. I still really love her, and I think in another world we might be married right now. But everything is so messy when you survived a war as a kid, you know?” At some point in Sokka’s little monologue Zuko’s turned to look at him, and their eyes seem drawn to each other. Something behind Zuko’s eyes tell Sokka that he does understand, which Sokka already knew. “We were teenagers, and we were so fucked up and scared, I don’t think any relationship we made during that time could have lasted. Aang and Katara only got together after, I think that’s the only reason why they’ve made it through. But me and Suki,” he looks up at the sky, the little fingernail moon, “me and Yue, that wouldn’t have worked. I was so messed up, mentally back then. You know how it is.”

Zuko nods, doesn’t look away. “Yeah,” he murmurs. 

Sokka breaks free from the eye contact and looks down at the rim of the bottle, gleaming in the distant light all around them. “I guess that’s the plus side to all this,” he muses. “I’ll never have to go through anything like that again.”

“Don’t say things like that,” Zuko says sharply, his voice choked off.

Below them, the band in the park starts playing a Water Tribe song, changed over time and adaptation but reminiscent of a lullaby Gran-Gran used to sing, and Sokka is suddenly overcome by a love of life. The music, the festival lanterns, the warm breeze, the buzzing of the alcohol in his blood, Zuko sitting next to him, body warm and familiar, it’s suddenly too much for his heart to bear. It hurts, like his organs are being ripped out of him by some unseen force. He doesn’t want to die, he realizes. He’s known this for a long time but it hasn’t sunk in until now.

He doesn’t want to die.

Fuck, Sokka thinks. I might die. I might die before the next harvest festival; this might be the last time I ever see this in my lifetime. He tries to soak in everything he can see: the glow of the lanterns on the trees, the sharp cut of Zuko’s cheekbones in the low light. The constellations, the sky. 

“I want to tell people I’m dying,” Sokka blurts. 

Zuko doesn’t move, just blinks once, hard. “Okay.”

“If I die, I want to have a Water Tribe burial. I don’t want to be buried in red.” Once Sokka starts, he can’t stop; it all comes pouring out, thoughts he didn’t know he had. “I want you to make Southern reparations a priority for the Fire Nation in my memory. I want…” his voice slurs a little, but Zuko’s listening as intently as he ever has. “I want Toph to make me the biggest fucking statue she can.” 

“You can have that,” Zuko says, and his voice is so low it might as well be a whisper. “You can have anything you want.”

Zuko’s eyes shine like the stars and his eyelashes brush the tops of his cheeks as he lifts the bottle to his lips and drinks, then hands it to Sokka. When Sokka drinks, the rim of the bottle is warm. 

I might love Zuko, he thinks. 

Might. That’s the operative word.

They’re not on the balcony for much longer until Katara comes to find them, the only one not drunk but tired enough to seem it, and drag them back inside to say goodnight. Sokka walks them all to the harbor, where the air acolytes are again waiting on Appa to take their passengers home. Zuko gives a little wave to Sokka as they lift off the ground, and Sokka’s heart lurches. He pushes it down, walks back to his apartment in silence with Toph; they don’t say anything at the corner where they split off. 

When Sokka gets back to his apartment it seems so much larger and colder than it did just ten minutes ago. Tomorrow he’ll have to clean up empty cups and dirty plates, return Katara’s jacket that she left draped over a chair by the door. But tonight he crawls into bed and forces himself to go to sleep. He won’t think about tonight, about what he said, he’ll save that for another day. He won’t let himself cry. 

Tomorrow he’ll clean up his apartment and go into work and tell the other members of the Council about the poison coursing through his veins and hope they don’t treat him any differently. It seems too daunting, thinking of it like that, so he focuses instead on his other tasks for tomorrow. He’ll clean up his apartment. He’ll get tea from the new shop near the library. He’ll make noodles for dinner. 

It’s through thinking of lists and chores and concrete tasks, not of the way Zuko’s eyes followed his, that Sokka is able to slowly fall asleep. 

He dreams of stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just realized i never gave y'all any context for the title and poem oops-  
> the title is from the song "Away From The Roll Of The Sea" it's a lullaby about boats. the poem is, as it says, Only In Sleep by Sara Teasdale, which i've included in this story mainly to pay homage to the choral arrangement that influenced this story greatly. here's a spotify playlist that includes both of these songs, as well as some others!!  
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/28bTbsjEeUWJbVmtIf0dmW
> 
> anyway hi. the harvest festival isn't based on any particular harvest festivals, as basically every culture has their own. imagine one close to your heart if you wish.
> 
> please comment it makes my build a bear named Jeff very happy


	4. Zuko II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sokka falls, banquets are held, and traditions are broken.

_Yet we played last night as long ago,_   
_And the doll-house stood at the turn of the stair._   
_-Only In Sleep, Sara Teasdale_

Sokka tries to pretend the poison doesn’t affect him, but Zuko knows him too well for that. They all do. Sokka’s kidding himself if he thinks none of them notice the way he stares off into space during mealtimes, the way he often drops the ends of his sentences in favor of a vague hand gesture or weak, ‘you know?’ They all can see it when he stands up and holds, for a second, stock-still as his knees shake and he seems to threaten to collapse. They all know.

Sokka holds true to his word and tells the other members of the Council about the stabbing, the poison, all of it. To their credit, they don’t immediately start treating him like a baby or a fine ceramic teapot, but Zuko knows they talk. He hears the things assorted ministers and dignitaries say, even if they’re inclined to hold their tongue around the Firelord. Gossip of this magnitude doesn’t stay concealed for long, and it’s bound to reach every corner of the globe before you can try and regulate the story. It’s kind of shocking, really, how quickly Sokka’s title seems to change from ‘the Water Tribe Councilman’ to ‘the dying Councilman.’ Nobody has said anything outlandishly invasive to Zuko personally; they know better than to try and offend the Councilman’s dear friend. But he knows how they talk behind closed doors and he knows they look at Sokka differently, which is _exactly_ what he was worried about. It’s so infuriating, sometimes, because he gets so mad at people who see Sokka as dying, or damaged, or vulnerable, but at the same time he knows there are times when he feels the same way. It’s Sokka, he’s one of the greatest things in the four nations, and Zuko can’t help but feel ashamed for wanting to keep him safe. 

But when Sokka asks again to spar, Zuko doesn’t have it in him to say no. 

It comes in the form of a note this time. Zuko’s in the Council building meeting with the Fire Nation Councilman on the matter of creating a Fire Nation cultural heritage center in the city. It’s an issue of great debate: many people think it would be fair to make a building dedicated to the cultural traditions of the Fire Nation like they’re doing with the other nations, but just as many believe it would be in poor taste. Everyone else has gone home, it’s just Zuko and the Councilman and the waning afternoon sunlight. That is, until a messenger comes in bearing a letter for the Firelord. It’s not stamped with Sokka’s official seal, but he can tell who it’s from as soon as he sees the scratchy, slanted handwriting. 

“Meet me in the park by my place after your meeting,” it reads. “Bring your swords.”

Zuko grins and pockets the note. “Councilman Haoran, I think it’s about time we made a decision.”

Sokka’s already waiting for Zuko when he arrives, lounging on a park bench with his sword resting in his lap. For a moment Zuko thinks he might be asleep; his head is tilted back on his shoulders and his eyes are closed, like a beavercat soaking up the sunlight. But as soon as he hears Zuko approaching he perks up, taking his sword in one hand and swinging it down so that it stands in the ground almost like a cane. He doesn’t stand, just sits on his park bench with his sword-scepter like the king of the world. “Zuko, my dearest friend,” he croons. “Ready to get your ass kicked?” 

Zuko, who didn’t have time to change from his official clothes but rather shucked off his outer layers until he was wearing only his pants and a loose tunic, comfortable but absolutely improper, takes his swords off his back and feels the familiar grip, the weight that feels as natural as his own arms. “You wish.”

Sokka stands and holds his sword with both hands. It’s not a new sword, forged just after the war ended, but there are still times when Zuko looks at Sokka’s fighting stance and expects to see his space sword there. It’s a kind of cognitive dissonance from the days of the war that never really goes away. Zuko shifts into his own fighting stance and with a moment of calm breathing and preparation, Sokka lunges forward and they’re off to the races. 

To Zuko and Sokka, fighting is a familiar dance. In a way, they’ve been doing this since they were teenagers but this, this absolute harmony of clashing blades, is something they’ve only perfected in adulthood, something that they’ve honed and mastered over time like a fine art. It’s no longer like fighting a stranger, or an enemy, or a friend, but fighting a parallel of yourself; they fit together fighting like two rivers that meet in a great ocean. 

Zuko used to be able to disarm Sokka within minutes, back when they were younger. His years of experience with the dao easily overpowered Sokka’s meager expertise with his sword. But Sokka had always been a quick learner, for better and for worse, and their sparring matches stretched longer and longer as they improved. Sokka knows every move that Zuko can possibly make now: he knows how to tell if Zuko will feint, he knows what’s a blockable blow and when to get out of the way. So they fight now like it’s the end of the world, even in the small park across the way from Sokka’s apartment building. 

Sokka always looks the part when he’s fighting. His signature wolftail, although universally beloved, does little for keeping the fine hairs in place, and they all fall around his face and frame his eyes in a way that Zuko would never admit that he loves. It’s a relatively warm day, and though Zuko doesn’t get hot easily, Sokka certainly does, and the hair that escapes his updo gets stuck to the sweat on his forehead. He’s panting, not even trying to hide it, and Zuko can’t help but notice that he holds his sword not like an extension of himself but as if it’s a burden, like it’s heavier than he expected when he picked it up. Zuko’s not blind, he sees the muscle that Sokka’s lost in his arms, he sees the way most of his clothes don’t fit him quite right anymore. 

Sokka must look more worse for the wear than Zuko realizes because in the distance, safely away from the swinging swords, the Ambassador of the Fire Nation, a kind woman named Jingyi, calls out, “are you sure you ought to be doing that, Councilman Sokka?” 

Sokka grits his teeth and parries Zuko’s strike, forcing Zuko to take a leap backwards. “I’m _fine_ ,” he hisses as Zuko attempts to disarm him. He instead turns and escapes the attack, swinging around behind Zuko’s back and, before Zuko can turn, lands a blunt blow on Zuko’s hand and sends his left-hand dao flying away into the grass. 

Ambassador Jingyi stands and watches with a look of horror on her face. There’s a moment of stalemate as they both assess the situation, and Sokka surges forward again. It’s awkward fighting with one half of the dao, and Sokka knows that. It’s why he puts so much energy into disarming Zuko every time they spar. And as Sokka puts everything into the fight with a renewed vigor, Zuko begins to think that he might not win this one. There are a couple kids by a tree to Zuko’s right that are watching the fight intently, gleeful spectators with that kind of wide-eyed interest children take in everything. It’s a fierce fight: Sokka attacks, Zuko dodges, Sokka lunges, Zuko parries, Sokka feints, Zuko cross-cuts. Sokka grows slower and heavier, choosing to defend more rather than attack. He’s not as light on his feet as he was at the beginning of the match, and he stumbles every couple of moves. In a moment of pity Zuko lessens his attacks and Sokka seizes the opportunity to leap forward and strike; he catches Zuko’s sword on his own and, twisting it harshly, sends it clattering to the ground. Zuko thinks he’s done for, ready for the cool metal of the sword against his neck, signifying the end of the fight, until Sokka lunges towards him and falters, his feet seeming to fail him, and falls. 

Zuko’s first instinct is to dive down and pick up his sword, ready to continue the fight, until he realizes Sokka isn’t getting up.

He drops down next to Sokka who’s in a heap on the grass, trying to hold himself up by his shaking arms. He’s breathing more heavily than he should, gasping for air like a drowning man. Zuko’s hands find their way to his shoulders and try their best to keep Sokka upright. “What happened?” He asks. His voice sounds too high coming out of his own mouth. 

Sokka’s still just breathing, trying to lift himself off the ground and failing, and Ambassador Jingyi rushes over as well. “Councilman Sokka, are you alright? You shouldn’t have been tiring yourself out like that, not in your condition-“

“ _Shut up_ ,” Sokka mumbles. “Shut up.” 

Ambassador Jingyi backs away, and Zuko feels a little bad, but not nearly bad enough. “Sokka,” he murmurs, “I’m going to take you back to your apartment, alright?” 

Sokka nods. “Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “I’m gonna sleep for a year.” 

With great difficulty Zuko hauls them both up. Sokka’s little more than dead weight hanging off Zuko’s shoulder, but he keeps a firm grip on his sword in one hand. Zuko leaves his dao there on the grass- no one’s going to steal the Firelord’s swords. 

As they leave the park Zuko notices that the kids who had been watching the fight from the tree are all gone but one, who hides behind the trunk and watches Zuko carry Sokka out like he’s just watched his hero die, which he very well might have. 

Sokka lives fairly high up, and Zuko struggles to get them up the stairs. Sokka’s breathing starts to even out, and he begins to lean less and less on Zuko. They get to Sokka’s apartment and Sokka collapses onto his bed. Once Zuko’s sure he won’t die right there, he excuses himself into the little kitchen to get a glass of water and think. 

Zuko’s still not entirely sure what happened. It’s something to bring up to the healers, definitely, and maybe Katara. Someone who knows better than Zuko. Because all Zuko can do is make things worse, it feels like. If he hadn’t agreed to spar, Sokka wouldn’t be lying in the other room and wouldn't have destroyed his reputation any more. What will the other politicians inevitably think when they hear about the incident in the park? They’re bound to treat him differently, like he might collapse at any moment, and Sokka will be mad at them but mad at Zuko mainly for allowing this to happen. 

So Zuko grabs a knife and an apple on Sokka’s counter and does the only thing he knows how to. 

Sokka’s sitting up when Zuko comes back into the bedroom, leaning against the headboard and reading a book. He doesn’t speak, just watches Zuko as he places the plate of apple slices next to him and takes a seat at the foot of the bed. For a few minutes they don’t talk, they just eat and each try and figure out how to possibly begin to discuss what happened without fucking things up any more than they already are. Sokka seems engrossed in his book, which Zuko can read from the cover is a text on airship mechanics. To each their own, Zuko thinks. 

Sokka must reach a breaking point in a chapter because after a while of silence he closes his book and sighs, fixing Zuko with an unreadable stare. “Are you going to be weird about this?”

“Should I?” Is all Zuko can think of to ask.

Sokka scoffs. “Of course not. And by the way, I totally would’ve won that fight. That counts as a win for me.”

“I’ll mark it down,” Zuko says absentmindedly. There’s one more apple slice left, a misshapen little crescent moon, and Sokka reaches out and takes it. “Sokka… what even happened?”

Sokka chews in petulant silence. “I just blacked out for a second, that’s all,” he says eventually. “I’m fine.” 

“You keep saying that,” Zuko muses. Through Sokka’s window Zuko can see the sun begin to set, the golden light casting the room in an ethereal glow. It feels, somehow, as if time has stopped; everything feels calm for this one moment, everything feels poignant. Zuko forces himself to take a deep breath. He hasn’t stopped hyperventilating since Sokka collapsed in the park no more than twenty minutes ago. 

A week ago, Sokka would have protested that he was shipshape, ready to roll. The fact that he isn’t arguing with Zuko on that fact makes Zuko wonder if he, too, is questioning his wellness.

“What time is it?” Sokka asks. 

Zuko doesn’t need to look at a clock; he can feel the position of the sun in his bones, he knows exactly when it’ll hit the horizon. “About six,” he says. 

“Alright.” Sokka moves to sit up, contorts his face as he hauls himself up on arms that aren’t shaking anymore, and cracks his back. “Let’s go get dinner. I hear there’s a new place with Water Tribe cuisine that I’ve been dying to check out.” 

Zuko smiles because if Sokka’s hungry that means all isn’t lost yet. “I’ll try and get us a ride,” he says, and Sokka doesn’t try to debate. 

By the time they get to the restaurant Sokka is laughing again, telling jokes about the time him and Suki almost kidnapped a child by accident. Zuko’s still confused about how you kidnap someone by accident but apparently it’s happened to them before, so he doesn’t question it. Sokka could say anything, the worst joke or the most boring story, and it would sound like a thunderclap ringing. He just has that power. 

Zuko can’t stay after dinner; he has an important meeting in the morning and a boat back to the Fire Nation to catch, so Sokka walks him to the harbor and Zuko holds his tongue. Sokka’s stubborn, he always has been, and if Zuko tried to say anything about Sokka knowing his limits, even now, it wouldn’t be pretty. 

So Zuko just offers him a hug as they depart and hopes that things will work out in time. “It’s going to be fine,” Sokka says as Zuko steps on the gangplank. He shoots Zuko a smile like a flash of lightning. “I promise.” 

~

“The Four Nations Banquet is an annual tradition of international unity and goodwill. We come together to share an evening of entertainment and joy, something we couldn’t have done even thirty years ago. We have made so much progress since the end of the war, including where we are tonight in the heart of Republic City, a testament to the power of peace. This is a memorable event as the first Four Nations Banquet to be held in Republic City, and everyone in this room should be honored to be a part of history. Eat, dance, and enjoy yourselves. May the banquet begin!”

Zuko heaves a sigh of relief. “How was that?”

Suki smacks her forehead against the window of the carriage; it makes a resounding ‘thwack.’ “Spirits, shut up. You’ve run this speech three times now and it isn’t even that long.”

Zuko huffs. “It’s not my fault for wanting to get it right.”

“You can run it in your head,” Suki argues, reaching out a finger to poke Zuko’s temple. Her nail scratches the skin. “Just please, please shut up until we get there. Can you do that for me?”

“I should’ve brought Toph,” Zuko grumbles. He would slump down in his seat like a grumpy teenager if he could, but he can’t afford to wrinkle his formal robes. 

Suki rolls his eyes. “If Toph was here, you’d be walking. Suck it up.”

They’re paired up for the banquet, as is tradition. Aang and Katara will arrive in the first carriage, then Zuko and Suki, then Sokka and Toph will bring up the rear. For years Suki and Sokka went to all these functions together, and they continued long after they broke up. This year, however, Toph nabbed Sokka on the grounds of wanting to ‘shake things up’ and Zuko agreed, thinking it would be nice to spend more time one-on-one with Suki. He did not anticipate, however, Suki’s tough-love approach to his speech. It’s not even his; some random advisor wrote it on his behalf. If he had written it himself maybe he’d have a better chance of remembering it, but alas. “I forgot the line about Aang,” he realizes. “Can I please run it again?”

Suki pulls out her fan under the guise of checking her lipstick in the reflective metal. “If you don’t stop talking right now, you’re going to leave this carriage blind in both eyes,” she answers. 

They arrive and enter without complication. At the second banquet, Zuko had tripped over his robes and landed on Aang, pushing them both down the stairs, which ended up just shy of qualifying for an international incident. If Aang hadn’t patted Zuko on the back good-naturedly after they got up, they might be in the middle of another war right now. But he descends the grand staircase leading to the ballroom with a practiced ease, Suki’s hand just brushing his arm. His speech goes off without a hitch, no thanks to her. 

Around the circumference of the ballroom are long tables with painstakingly arranged seating patterns to make sure there would be no problems. At the first banquet, two ex-war ministers with a known vendetta were seated next to each other; nobody quite knows what happened, as they were keen enough to take a short jaunt outside, but they both left the banquet with black eyes. 

Aang is seated to Zuko’s right and Suki to his left, then Katara next to Aang, then Sokka and Toph. They’ve been clumped together like this every year, which was a blessing back when they were socially awkward teenagers surrounded by strange politicians and is a gift even now. 

Zuko does have to admit that the banquet has come together very nicely. The ballroom is situated above the offices of city hall, with a grand view of the harbor through the large windows. The sloping ceilings are draped in lights, warm and bright, and everything seems to sparkle. Zuko follows Sokka to the food tables, which are laden with delicacies of all kinds. The nature of the Four Nations Banquet is such that everyone’s cultural foods are represented on the table. It was really fascinating, during the planning process of the first banquet, watching Aang recreate a functioning Air Nomad cookbook for future events. Over the years Zuko has learned which foods he likes and which ones he doesn’t through trial and error, so he’s confident in his decision to duck past Sokka, who’s piling his plate with stewed sea prunes, and go for some wonderfully smoked meats that he’s come to love even more than Sokka, if that’s even possible. 

It’s always like entering some bizarre alternate universe, having dinner with his friends at the banquet, considering all the societal conventions they’re expected to follow that they never do when they’re alone. Sokka eats only off his own plate, doesn’t steal off other people’s, and Suki doesn’t swear. Aang valiantly doesn’t start food-launching competitions and Katara doesn’t egg on the competitors. Their conversation is bland and unexciting, full of pre-approved, inoffensive dialogues (“did you see Minister Feng is here?” “I didn’t. Does that mean he’s over that nasty case of pentapox?” “I suppose so. He looks well.” “That’s a relief.”). That’s the way of it; they bide their time with idle chatter until the dancing starts and the real fun can begin. 

After the eating is done and the plates are cleared comes the time for dancing. The band, who have been drinking absentmindedly in the meanwhile, pick up their instruments and begin to play, a jaunty tune they always start with to get people on their feet. 

It becomes clear, as the various nobles and dignitaries rise to dance, that Sokka is not expected to join them. There’s a chair off to the side, just out of the way of the dancers, beautifully made of a deep blue fabric and intricately carved wooden frame. He is to sit and watch, chat with those not participating, and keep safe. Sokka is led to this chair and takes a seat with a frown; Zuko watches from a distance. It’s a well-intended move, if a bit mean. By now, everyone knows of Sokka’s condition and most members of the party know of his little fainting spell at the park. They don’t know Sokka, only his name and his title and his illness, so they try to make him feel included while still avoiding an incident. 

Sokka sits alone and scowls as the band plays. Even Toph, who thinks dancing is a worthless waste of good feet, is deep in conversation with a wizened old lady who Zuko thinks is a representative of the Eastern Earth Kingdom. Zuko is swept up into the dance, but he can see momentary flashes of curt conversation forced on Sokka by well-meaning nobles that not-so-covertly want to gather intel on what exactly is going on with him. 

Zuko is carried away in the dance, the pulsating crowd, the constant motion that makes it so that he can occasionally catch Sokka in his sights but never keep him there. He’s fascinated by the dancing at the banquet, always has been. It’s a strange amalgamation of styles from the four nations, with bizarrely blended music to accompany. The dancing is primarily based from the Earth Kingdom, with its large group numbers and relatively simple steps. But there are Fire Nation moves and Water Tribe influences and sometimes the dances are arranged in a traditionally Earth Kingdom set of eight, with four distinct pairs, and sometimes in an Air Nomad set of six, with no designated partners or head couples. It’s a wholly unique experience to this era, watching a new dance style emerge in Republic City. None of Zuko’s friends share his passion for the history of cultural dance, but at least Aang pretends to listen when he shares his findings. 

When Zuko is facing the right direction he can sometimes find Sokka between the bodies. Every time he looks at Sokka, Sokka’s looking at him. 

They dance until the band demands a break, stumbling off to the bathroom or drinking their weight in the only slightly alcoholic banquet wine. They’re musicians found off the street it seems, not hired from the wealth of court bands trained by the best for this sole purpose. Zuko likes it better this way; the music has more heart. 

Everyone mills about, waiting for the band to return and taking advantage of the silence to make conversation they didn’t get to during dinner. 

Zuko is sidelined by Ambassador Jingyi and some ministers he thinks are friends of hers. “Councilman Sokka is here tonight,” she says. “I hope that bodes well for his condition.”

“I do too,” Zuko says, always non-confrontational, always demure. That’s the way of banquets like this. 

“Is he improving? We were quite worried by the little incident a few weeks ago. Could something like that happen again tonight?” To her credit, she does look worried, but moreso at the prospect of witnessing another collapse than actual concern for Sokka.

“What happened at the park was unfortunate but an isolated incident. That’s how we’re choosing to go forward.” Zuko folds his hands behind his back and desperately looks around for someone to save him from this conversation. It feels wrong, speaking on behalf of Sokka’s well-being when he’s seated no more than fifty feet away. “As with any sickness, there are bad days and good days. We simply have to continue with our lives and let fate run its course as it sees fit.” 

Ambassador Jingyi looks slightly displeased. Perhaps she hoped Zuko would try and fight for Sokka’s honor and defend him against what people are saying about his illness. But he’s so tired, so emotionally wrung out, all he can do is tell the truth. It’s up to the hands of fate, as unsatisfying as that answer is. 

Behind them, the band begins to retune their instruments. Zuko feels momentary relief at the sound, but it doesn’t look as though Jingyi’s posse will let go of their conversation any time soon. 

“Firelord Zuko,” one of Jingyi’s friends pipes up as the band leads into their next tune, “what do you think of the possibility of a universal currency? Do you think it could only be successful in Republic City, or will we all be using the same money in the future?” 

“There already is a universal currency,” comes Sokka’s voice from behind Zuko. “It’s called a winning smile.” When Zuko turns he bows, the proper way to greet him, a sight he hasn’t seen in a while. “Firelord.”

Zuko, thrilled to have been saved, clasps Sokka’s arm in greeting a little too enthusiastically. “Ambassador Sokka.” 

Sokka looks happier now that he’s out of his chair, and Zuko can’t help but quickly take stock of his appearance. He looks steady, not a single shake to his legs, his posture easy and confident. He looks, to all accounts, like a man healed. He extends a hand to Zuko. “Dance with me,” he says, all propriety foregone. 

Zuko just barely stops himself from glancing back at Ambassador Jingyi and the others. “You know that isn’t the way,” he mumbles. 

“I’m dying, Zuko,” he protests. “This could be my last dance and none of us would know it. Will you really deny me my last dance on this mortal coil?” 

Zuko rolls his eyes in response; he can hear Jingyi’s little group whispering madly behind him. Sokka grabs Zuko’s hand anyway and pulls him toward the teeming mass of dancers. “Besides, you’re the Firelord. Anything you do is the way.” 

It’s a partner dance, a traditionally Fire Nation idea. The music is a Earth Kingdom influenced performance of a children’s tune Zuko has been told originated from the Air Nomads. Sokka locks into the music immediately, taking control of the dance in order to really force Zuko to participate. “You know,” Zuko says as they begin, “it really is customary to let the Firelord lead.” 

Sokka grins but makes no moves to change his status. “Well, then. I guess this is just a night for breaking rules.”

It’s fun, dancing with Sokka. Thrilling in a way he’s never known. They’ve danced before, at parties with their friends, stumbling and laughing and halfway drunk, but never like this. Never surrounded by people with steel in their eyes, people who would eviscerate if handed the knife. And here’s Zuko, giving it to them like a birthday present, brandishing his weak spots for them to stab, and he couldn’t care less. Zuko has to think as they move, unused to dancing the woman’s part, and he steps on Sokka’s toes a couple times. But Sokka takes it in stride with the grandest, proudest smile on his face. Zuko lets the music take hold of him, the sweeping strings and the thrumming rhythm below it. They both know the steps by heart. Zuko’s often thought of their fighting as a dance, treasured it because of it, but has never allowed himself the fantasy of what actually dancing would be like, and it’s better than he ever could have imagined. It’s free and it’s giddy and it’s light, like with any step they could both float up to the ceiling and get tangled in the hanging light. 

They move like lovers, like birds in the sky, like Tui and La. Two halves of a whole. It’s breathtaking, the ease of it, once Zuko stops treading on Sokka’s feet. Around him the crowd moves in unison, and he’s not foolish enough to not feel the eyes on him. The Firelord is dancing with the dying Councilman, they seem to say. They’ll come to their own conclusions.

Sokka never falters in the dance; you wouldn’t ever think of the poison festering under his skin, just watching him move. Zuko feels exhausted just trying to keep up; it reminds him suddenly of when they were younger, chasing Sokka down country paths in the middle of the night, up to no good, out of breath with the frantic beating of your heart the only thing keeping you going, the thrill the only coal in your little inner stove. 

And Sokka never stops smiling. 

Zuko doesn’t think he ever could quantify how much this moment means to him, but he tries anyway. He tries to translate it into poetry in his head, tries to rationalize the enormity of his emotions in the kind of rich prose he read in his mother’s books as a child. 

It’s just them, a boat rocking in the middle of a stormy ocean, and the music filling the hall. 

The song ends and they break apart. Sokka’s practically panting, but he breathes heavily through his grin. The band strikes up their next tune, and everyone scrambles to get into sets. Zuko spots out of the corner of his eye that Toph has taken up residence in Sokka’s chair. 

The way of the dance is such that the sets swap, weaving in and out of each other so that Sokka and Zuko only meet every sixteenth measure, only interacting with the turn of a shoulder or the touch of a palm. It feels so much more charged than the one before, but with what, Zuko can’t place. They wind the wheel of dancers and Sokka smiles a little brighter each time they meet, as if he’s the only one in the room that matters, the only hand worthy of clasping, the only partner worth bowing to. They meet as the strings reel above them, as everyone gathers in a circle and prepares for one pair to dance in the middle. Putting the bird in the cage, Zuko’s heard it called. He thinks it’s a cute saying. The woman is supposed to go in first, and Zuko almost doesn’t connect the sudden absence of Sokka’s hand in his until he sees Sokka in the center of the circle, kicking out his feet and laughing and throwing his head back. Everyone is watching, how could they not, but Sokka just blossoms under the attention. He seems like a completely different man, entirely wiped of inhibition. Sokka goes to the edge of the ring for long enough to drag Zuko in, and for the second time it’s just them, whirling and gliding with reckless abandon as the room full of nobles circle around them hand in hand. The whole thing is unconventional and absolutely cannon fodder for high society to gossip about later, but all of that flies out the window when Sokka grabs Zuko’s hand and spins him, a woman’s spin, and out of the corner of his eyes he can see the way his robes fly out around his feet like a lady’s skirt. Zuko has been dancing the part of a woman all night, and somehow it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that this, by all traditional accounts, should be degrading. Sokka wanted Zuko to spin, so Zuko spun. That’s it. It’s wild fun, the way mistakes always are. 

It’s over before it’s begun and they’re back in the thick of it, passing by over the shoulder and peering at each other over their hands, pressed together more than is customary, when they do meet. It’s a fast song and Sokka keeps up as well as anyone; he fits perfectly into the frantic pace of the spinning and the footwork. 

They meet to join hands with the rest of their set and turn, and Zuko realizes that Sokka is singing along. It’s loud and off-key and he doesn’t know how he didn’t notice sooner. “Stop singing,” he hisses before their set breaks again. 

Sokka takes Zuko’s hand and spins away, still singing. When they see each other again, this time in lines, marching up to meet and then back again, Sokka seems even spitefully louder. “Stop singing, Sokka,” he repeats as they pass by, shoulder to shoulder. It’s improper, but no one can hear over the music and the sound of feet on the floor. 

Sokka takes Zuko’s hands, weaves them together above both of their heads, and turns. “Is this a sexual thing for you? Do you get off on telling me what to do?” He asks, cheeky and smug. 

Zuko doesn’t need a mirror to know how red his face gets. Just judging by the pure heat of it, it’s as deep a burgundy as his robes. “Shut up.”

Sokka lets go of his hands with a flourish and a wink. “ _Yes_ , Firelord,” he teases before slipping away, forcing Zuko to quickly school his expression before the next poor person in line gets the full brunt of his embarrassment. 

Zuko and Sokka end the song together, hand in hand, chest to chest, frozen in the final position as the last notes of the song fade into the air. When the music finally dies it’s like a spell has been broken, and everyone in the room seems to let go of what they’ve been holding, slumping their shoulders and heaving a breath. Sokka’s panting, and Zuko is a little too, but Sokka really seems beat. He can’t help but notice the quiver in Sokka’s fingers as he runs his hand across his head, smoothing the flyaways that have come loose from his wolftail. Against his better judgement Zuko trusts Sokka not to faint on him again. Sokka would rather hurt himself than be babied, so Zuko has to care from a distance and hold Sokka’s wellbeing at arms-length, leave it up to Sokka, who it should be up to anyway. It’s frustrating. 

The band strikes up the last song of the evening, and it’s a fiery reel, fast and thrilling. Sokka takes a gulp of air and with a grin, grabs Zuko’s hand for one more dance. 

Last time, Sokka had been a member of the world, eyes open to everyone in the room, a grin as bright as the sun for anyone who looked his way. This time, though, he keeps his gaze steadfastly locked on Zuko. They don’t switch sets in this song, so Sokka never has to let him out of his line of sight, just fix him with that indescribable stare and watch Zuko’s chest fill up with warmth that he doesn’t think comes from the exercise. Sokka steps and turns and kicks and does everything he’s supposed to and he doesn’t let it show how tired Zuko knows he is. It’s an unstable game they’re playing, toeing the line towards danger. But Sokka doesn’t seem to care, only dances with the single-minded focus to get closer to Zuko. To press palms and grin conspiratorially, to turn shoulders and watch out of the corner of his eye, to meet face to face with a shout and look at Zuko as if he’s seeing the sun for the first time. 

The song ends with a flourish and Sokka slings his arm around Zuko and lets all his weight drop. Zuko holds him up. 

The gathered assembly all claps for the musicians and for their own company and disperse from the center of the ballroom to mingle one last time before they leave. Zuko lets Sokka lead him back to his special seat, which Toph practically leaps out of when she senses them coming. She makes a quick exit to grab ‘one last snack before they leave’, and Sokka melts into the chair with an enormous sigh. “Spirits,” he breathes. 

“How are you feeling?” Zuko asks, because he hasn’t yet learned that more than often that question yields nothing. 

“Tired,” Sokka answers, for once willing to play along. 

Zuko nods knowingly. “I’m going to go grab Katara. She’s in the middle of a conversation with Minister Guan, I know she’ll appreciate it.”

Sokka snorts. “Yeah. Hey, Zuko-“ he says as Zuko turns to leave, reaching out as if to take his hand but stopping at the last moment, his fingers just brushing Zuko’s wrist. “Thank you for letting me dance with you.” 

Zuko just smiles in response. 

Katara looks as though Minister Guan is pulling out her teeth one by one rather than simply engaging her in a conversation about Southern Water Tribe reparations, and when Zuko comes up behind her she looks as though she might carve him a betrothal necklace right then and there. “Firelord,” she greets him, with the sly smile they all get when they have to greet Zuko in public, as if she’s privy to a secret only they know about. 

“Master Katara,” he responds in kind. “Minister Guan. How did you enjoy your evening?” 

“It was lovely,” Minister Guan says, even though Zuko didn’t really ask him. “If I may, I would like to say I thought it was a little untraditional how you danced with the Ambassador.” 

“I think I see my husband calling for me over by the door,” Katara interrupts. “I’m afraid I have to cut this conversation short. Firelord, will you accompany me? I have a question for you.” 

“Of course, Master Katara,” Zuko says, and her quick thinking saves them from yet another scrape. 

That’s the worst thing about having taken the throne at seventeen: there’s still a level of respect that many nobles and politicians don’t quite reach. It’s not as though Zuko wants to be respected- or feared- as totally as his father, but he’d appreciate it if they didn’t treat him like he’s a teenager again. 

Aang was not, in fact, waving over Katara from the door. He’s deep in conversation with an aging King Kuei, who has thankfully left his bear at home for the night. “Sweetie!” Aang greets her, as if they haven’t seen each other for a decade. “Firelord Zuko,” he adds belatedly. 

“It’s nice to see you again, King Kuei,” Zuko offers. “How are things in Ba Sing Se?” 

“Oh, you know, same as ever.” He shrugs. “Bosco has a stomachache. Ate some bad salmontrout.”

Aang frowns genuinely. “Oh no! Tell him I hope he recovers soon.” Katara shoots Zuko a look. 

The mingling doesn’t last much longer. Suki comes to find them and says that Sokka’s asking after them, and they say their goodbyes to the banquet guests and huddle out in the cold on the street in front of the city hall. 

Sokka leans against the wall, bright in the face but with a glazed sort of look in his eyes. It seems almost like he’s hours ahead of them, like they’re fresh out of the party at midnight and Sokka’s already pulled the all-nighter. Zuko feels bad and doesn’t stop himself; he’s allowed to worry about his friend, no matter what Sokka says. They’re making plans for the night, trying to figure out how many carriages to call and where to have them go. 

“Suki and I are going back to my place,” Toph tells them. 

Suki slings an arm over Toph’s shoulder, who only looks slightly annoyed. “We’re going to have a girl’s night.” 

Toph makes a face and Katara frowns, presses a hand to her chest, and says, affronted, “I’m a girl!” 

“You can go have a…” Toph waves a vague hand at Aang and Katara, “married people night.”

“Ew,” Sokka pipes up from the wall, not quite looking at them, head tipped back against the rough stone wall. “Don’t talk about my little sister fucking.” 

The small group erupts into a loud cacophony of assorted horror. Toph can’t contain her laughter, and with each howl Aang grows redder and redder. Katara glares at Sokka, who smirks up at the sky, pleased with himself at the chaos he’s created. “I didn’t say fucking!” Toph shoots back.

“You implied it!” Sokka argues, to even more loud debate. Zuko watches the whole thing with a grin and an admittedly red face. He feels young again, staving off the chill on the city streets, making too much noise to be appropriate.

“She never said fucking,” Suki interjects, placing a protective hand on Toph’s head that gets quickly shoved off. “ _You_ brought up fucking. You pervert.” 

Sokka holds up his hands in surrender and the conversation is able to get back on track. The mood within the little group is buoyant, almost giddy. “Zuko, will you come back to Air Temple Island with us?” Katara asks, her voice still a little breathy, as if she’s trying to hold back a giggle. 

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” Sokka cuts in from the wall. 

Katara turns to shoot him a withering look. “I think maybe I should bring Sokka home,” Zuko suggests, and when Sokka opens his mouth to protest something stupid like ‘ _I’m fine, I’ve never felt better, I can handle myself_ ’ Zuko adds, “we don’t know what kind of trouble he can get into at this hour.”

“I think we know exactly what kind of trouble,” Toph says. Suki slaps a hand over her mouth and quickly pulls it away with a yelp and a horrified look. “Don’t test me, Sooks. I’ll lick you again.” 

Katara snickers. “Have fun with your ‘girl’s night,’” she teases. “I’ll be going home with my lovely husband who _doesn’t_ lick me.” 

“Poor girl,” Toph stage-whispers to Suki. 

It may be bad form to shove a blind woman, but that’s never stopped Katara before. 

It’s all figured out, once Aang uses his avatar mediation tactics to keep Katara from freezing Toph’s feet in a block of ice. Aang and Katara will return to Air Temple Island, Suki and Toph will go have their girl’s night, whatever that entails, and Zuko will make sure Sokka gets home safely. Carriages are called for and they offer goodbyes with the ease of those who know it won’t be final. They’ll meet for breakfast tomorrow morning, so Toph has no qualms about slugging Sokka in the arm as they part. 

Sokka doesn’t sleep in the carriage, but it seems like he wants to. He slouches against the door, legs folded up to his chest. It would be endearing if Zuko wasn’t so blindsided by concern. The more time passes the more his exhaustion seems to weigh on him. Zuko knows the feeling, yawning once and then not being able to stop. 

When they arrive, Zuko has to help Sokka up the inordinate amount of stairs leading up to his apartment, one hand on his arm and one on the small of his back. Something about it feels so strange, so off, but neither of them can place it. 

Sokka makes up for the tense atmosphere with a nonstop stream of chatter. He seems intent on proving his fine-ness with light conversation, as if saying, ‘I can talk, see? I’m not going to keel over and die if I’m still cracking jokes.’

Sokka nearly misses a step and Zuko has to catch him around his waist to keep him from tumbling down the stairs. “You’re awfully handsy tonight,” Sokka teases.

Zuko rolls his eyes. “I’m sorry, do you want to fall down three flights of stairs? Because that can be arranged.” 

“I’m just saying; me, a known bachelor, and a handsome gentleman caller escorting me to my room? People will talk,” Sokka muses. 

“Is that all I am to you? Just any old gentleman caller?” Zuko teases back. “And besides, you’re not a bachelor. You’ve had two girlfriends.”

“I’ve never married,” Sokka argues. “And besides, I’m single now and that’s what matters.”

Zuko shakes his head, but he can’t stop the smile that finds its way onto his face. “Shut up.”

Sokka wiggles his eyebrows. “Oh, so we’re doing this again, are we?”

If Zuko lets Sokka trip on a step, that’s nobody’s business. 

They make it up with little disaster, and something about leading Sokka into his own dark apartment seems so fundamentally _wrong_ that Zuko can’t help but light a small fire between his fingers, even if just to break up the encroaching night. 

Sokka collapses into his bed as soon as he sees it, face down on the blanket. 

“You’re still in your clothes,” Zuko points out when it becomes clear Sokka has no intentions of getting back up. 

“No one’s ever died from a wrinkle,” Sokka says, muffled by the fabric. “Just leave me here.” 

“You know I’m not going to do that.”

Sokka sighs, but it sounds more fond than exasperated. “Yeah.” He hauls himself up by his forearms and sits, fingers shaking as he attempts to unbutton his collar. 

Zuko watches this pitiful display for a few seconds before saying, “I can help, if you want.”

Sokka frowns and keeps pawing at his collar. “No, I can do it.” His hand seems stiff, as if he can’t fully extend his fingers. He takes hold of one button and tries to force it through the buttonhole, only for it to slip from his grasp. The cycle repeats for a while. “Zuko…”

“Yeah?” For a split second Sokka’s face is so open and vulnerable that it scares Zuko, it scares him at how much fear he sees hidden in Sokka’s eyes. Then it’s gone, like a flash of lighting, hidden behind a mask of pride and silent martyrdom. 

“I really would appreciate your help.” 

“Yeah,” and it sounds almost like a breath, too quiet for Sokka to hear. “Yeah, sure, buddy.” 

Sokka’s still sitting on the edge of the bed, so Zuko has to get down on one knee to reach the underside of Sokka’s jaw, to keep his hands steady as he undoes the line of buttons down his neck. 

Zuko’s not stupid. He knows what he’s doing. He knows that every time his knuckles brush the soft skin of Sokka’s collarbones, he’s awakening some ancient monster from deep in a cavity of his chest, stirring the slumbering spirits beneath his skin that sometimes press to the surface when Sokka smiles, or jokes, or lets Zuko care for him. It’s not new, it never has been, and it’s been slowly coming up for air for a long time, but somehow it’s this gentle touch that shakes it awake. He knows that all he’s doing is giving new life to that old feeling, as primeval as his firebending, as his breath, as the beating of his weary old heart. It’s been a part of him since he first saw the boy barely older than his own young self who brought produce to the palace kitchens in the mornings and he’s accepted it, he understands it and lets it sleep in the little cavern behind his heart and between his lungs, but as it swells in his throat as he undoes button after button his only instinct is to shove it down, because this isn’t the time. Not here, not now, in the cold darkness of Sokka’s room, when Sokka is finally willing to be unguarded, he won’t ruin that. 

There will be other times for Zuko to let the yawning beast press its many hands against his flesh and try to break free. When Sokka stands and speaks in Council meetings, maybe. When they spar and his hair falls in front of his face and he looks at Zuko from beneath his eyebrows, planning his next attack. When he pretends to try to meditate with Aang, only to absentmindedly scratch his head and arms and jaw and knee and sway to the rhythm of some unknown tune. 

For now, Zuko smothers the feeling, the concept of it, and focuses only on helping Sokka.

But Sokka’s the problem, because Zuko’s not stupid. He can feel the flush on Sokka’s skin, he can hear the way his breath comes in shallow sighs. When he finishes with the buttons and helps Sokka lift off his outermost layer, leaving him in an undershirt rumpled by activity, he sees the way Sokka looks at him, the way his eyes don’t leave Zuko’s at any time. It reminds him of the way they were at the banquet, their gazes drawn to one another like the ocean and the shore, but at the same time it’s infinitely different. Sokka’s eyes on his are so much more defenseless now, not full of the easy mirth of dancing, but dark and open and still somehow concealing the frantic motion Zuko knows is happening inside his mind. 

They’re on the precipice of something, though Zuko doesn’t quite know what. But they’re changing, bending, and they’ll either mold each other into something new or break. 

When Zuko unties the small knot at the base of Sokka’s throat that secures his undershirt all Sokka does is watch him with that confounding, exposed look. Zuko’s doing more than he needs to, but he’ll continue for as long as he isn’t stopped. It’s not awkward or wrong, somehow, even with what Zuko can tell is shifting between them, it’s simply an act of charity between friends.

No, not charity. It’s an act of love, it never could be anything else. 

Sokka places a hand on Zuko’s and murmurs, “thank you.” 

Zuko takes a step back.

Sokka is able to walk himself to the washroom, but Zuko can see the way he moves as if he’s holding up his body, not the other way around. Zuko likewise removes the outermost layer of his robes, if only for comfort. It’s hot in the fine royal fabric, and he never liked it anyway. 

Sokka returns in his sleep clothes and falls into bed immediately, drawing the blankets up to his chin. “I had a wonderful time at the banquet,” he muses, looking off at the window just over Zuko’s shoulder. “Did you?” 

“I did,” Zuko says. 

Sokka props himself up on his elbows and makes eye contact with Zuko. “Will you sleep with me tonight?” He asks.

Maybe Zuko is still riding the thrill of the banquet, or maybe he’s finally buried any semblance of rational thought he once had, because he quips, “I don’t really think you’re up for that, buddy.” 

Sokka’s face burns red but he only falls down against his pillow and lifts one side of the blanket. “You know what I meant, asshole.” 

Zuko shucks off the remaining layers of his stuffy formal robes until he’s in underclothes suitable for sleepwear in lieu of response and climbs into bed beside Sokka. 

“I didn’t want to be alone tonight,” Sokka admits to the quiet of the room. He clips Zuko lightly in the arm. “And I could rock your world, _buddy_.” 

“I’m sure,” Zuko teases. 

They lie in silence for longer than is bearable, Sokka on his side, curled in on himself, and Zuko on his back, waiting for the exhaustion to set in. 

The window opposite the bed is closed, but a chill still leaks in through the painted frame, the minuscule gaps in the wood. Zuko tries not to shiver. He’s too languid to bend, he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on his breath of fire anyway. All he can do is lie there next to Sokka and examine the way the moonlight illuminates the small room. 

Sokka feels very passionately about his tiny apartment in the bustling center of the city, but Zuko’s never really understood until now. It’s quaint and stuffed full of furniture and knickknacks and dirty teacups, and it feels so much more welcoming than the austere palace Zuko calls home. It seems, somehow, as though Sokka was able to perfectly translate into his apartment the way it felt trying to sleep on Appa’s back, flying high above war zones, the wind in your hair, the only warmth the body heat emanating from arms and legs that find themselves pressed against your own. 

Sokka sighs gently, a barely-there puff of air. “You can hold me, if you want.”

But it shouldn’t be about what Zuko wants, he thinks. Sokka is the one who’s dying, he’s dying, he’ll be dead soon and the only thing he can think of is the way other people feel. It’s infuriating, watching Sokka self-sacrifice over and over for the sake of the people around him. But he can’t express any of this, at least not in the way he wants to, so he says back, “what do _you_ want?” 

For a few moments they’re silent again, as Sokka turns over Zuko’s question in his head. “I want you to hold me,” he says at last. 

“Okay,” says Zuko, and turns to take Sokka in his arms, back to chest, his arms draped across Sokka’s waist. He notices with concern the way his forearm can now reach almost all the way across his stomach. But Sokka just shivers a little and moves closer, skin against skin, and they revel in each other’s warmth. Zuko burns hot, he knows, as is the way with Firebenders; his skin is always feverish and he gets cold easily, leaking all his heat outwards rather than retaining it. Sokka, however, is like a furnace, a small flame deep within his core that warms him slowly and surely, not recklessly like Zuko. It’s more than welcome in the cold night air. 

As they lie there, Sokka’s head tucked right up against Zuko’s neck, hair tickling his chin, Zuko thinks with no small amount of worry how quickly Sokka had burnt out at the banquet tonight. He had been alive and gleeful for maybe 15 minutes, quick and bright, before falling into exhaustion. Only three songs, he thinks. Sokka ruined his night for three songs. 

But it’s not just that, is it? Sokka sacrificed his own wellbeing for three dances with Zuko. Not with anyone else. He sought out Zuko and he gambled with his own energy and he gave it all up to dance with Zuko. 

He holds Sokka a little tighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys we're more than halfway through how do you feel OwO  
> silly silly me thinking I could just write a nonsexual undressing scene anyway please don't read that as sexual or you know what do whatever you want i couldn't care less  
> i do not know what toph and suki's girls night would consist of and i was too scared to figure it out. if any of y'all have thoughts let me know in the comments  
> also YES all of the dancing in the banquet is based off of square dancing because i love square dancing so imagine them square dancing if you really want the full experience


	5. Sokka III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katara offers advice, Bumi turns six, and Zuko has something to say.

_The years had not sharpened their smooth round faces,_   
_I met their eyes and found them mild-_   
_-Only In Sleep, Sara Teasdale_

Here’s the worst thing about dying: with a life like Sokka’s, he’s been faced with his own mortality plenty of times. During the war, he thought about what his death would look like nearly every day. There were times when he would see Zuko, look him in the eyes, and think, ‘this is it. This is when he finally kills me.’ Then the war was over and he had nightmares about being assassinated by remaining Ozai sympathizers, holdovers from the old Fire Nation. He’s thought about his own death more than is healthy, and he realizes that. But he always assumed that when his time came, it would be the most important thing that happened to him at that moment.

Turns out that’s not exactly how these things go.

Sokka is dying unbearably slowly and it doesn’t even take priority. He goes to work every morning and stays late every evening and he has to write speeches regarding the results of the first presidential election, which is happening in three days. He’s buried in work, drowning in it. “It’s a coping mechanism,” Aang had explained over lunch one day as Sokka complained. “You feel as though your life is out of control, so you’re trying to regain that control through work.” 

Sokka had kicked him under the table and kept complaining. 

Everything just seems… too much. The world just keeps piling things on; if Sokka could say one thing to the universe, it would be ‘lay off!’ 

And then there’s the whole Zuko situation.

There’s been something off with them since the banquet, or rather since what happened after. And compared to some nights Sokka’s had after important political events, it was extraordinarily tame. But waking up that morning, warm in Zuko’s embrace, felt so monumental. Everything, waiting for Zuko to wake up and walking to breakfast with the others side by side, felt so poignant in a way that Sokka couldn’t hope to place. He tries to push it off during the day, tries not to let him distract him, and only lets himself ruminate on it at night, lying alone in his cold bed. It feels smaller now that he knows what it’s like to share it. Sokka might be in love with Zuko, and based off of the way Zuko had held him that night, he doesn’t know what to think about how Zuko feels about the whole thing. The optimistic part of his brain adores to argue the idea of a love requited, but the rational side of him feels differently. It’s Zuko. 

Zuko, who did atrocious things during the war, but who now doesn’t crush bugs, rather cups them in his hands and frees them outside. Zuko, who always gives himself the smallest portion of food and happiness. Zuko, who would have touched any one of his friends with the gentle fingers he used to unbutton Sokka’s heavy dress clothes. 

It means nothing, really, that Zuko ghosted his fingertips over Sokka’s skin and held him when Sokka asked. He would do that for anyone, that’s just the way he is. He gives and gives and thinks nothing of it. 

So Sokka continues with his life and tries to ignore the storm brewing within and without. 

The day of the election, as Sokka works into the night, Katara comes to him and tells him to leave his cramped desk, piled high with papers, and to come with her to the pier. Sokka begrudgingly follows and together they walk to the shore, where fellow people in search of a break have gathered to enjoy an evening of mild weather by the harbor. The warm, golden days of late fall have come to a close, and it’s long been cold. Today, though, there’s a reprieve of the bitter winds that have been sweeping in from the sea and the fading sun offers a small modicum of comfort, rather than just shining on the city like a faraway lantern. It’s not busy, not by a long shot, as most folks are home with their families, but some street food vendors have relocated to the pier and Sokka can see mothers leading their children along the wooden planks as the kids peek over the side, gawking at fish coming up to the surface in hope of dropped crumbs and the barnacles climbing up the sides of the pilings. The cane that Sokka now uses makes a hollow sort of knocking sound against the wood beneath his feet, a far cry for the dull thud it makes on the cobblestones in the city. A few boats lay docked in the harbor, gently rocking in the waves, and Sokka feels calmer than he has for a long time. 

Katara takes a seat on a bench outside of a public house, one of the rare businesses facing the sea, a common haunt for sailors and travelers alike. Sokka sits beside her. “It feels like I haven’t seen you in a million years,” she says. “Between your work here and my work up North and all the traveling with Aang, I feel like I never see you.” 

“We saw each other two weeks ago,” Sokka points out. “But I feel that way too.”

Katara hums and looks out to sea. Sokka is sure she’s thinking of the same thing he is: of the waves at home, frosty and sharp, lapping against the icy shore. Of the boats, run aground in the snow, to be pushed out into the water by countless hands. Sokka loves the city, but he will always harbor a deep, abiding adoration for his homeland. He will return before he dies, he decides. “Do you think it’s a good thing, that we can spend so much time apart?” Katara contemplates. “When we were younger, we wouldn’t have been able to imagine going two weeks without seeing each other.” 

“I think it means we’re growing up,” Sokka says. 

“But-“ Katara stops. “Maybe.” They sit in silence, enjoying each other’s company and the musty salt smell of the sea. Inside the pub Sokka can hear drunken singing, muffled shanties sung by gruff voices, the kind Sokka used to fall asleep to as a child. He remembers those days well, when the men would return from fishing trips and everyone would sit around the fire and sing. Sokka would be sent to bed and lie awake beneath the warm weight of blankets and hides and listen to the men reminiscing and singing songs not appropriate for children like Sokka to overhear (he overheard regardless). After what felt like a lifetime lying there, cozy and tired, his dad would come in, a smile still on his face, and Sokka would pretend to be asleep as he pressed a kiss to both his children’s heads before going to sleep himself for a measly few hours before the sailors had to get back up before dawn to raise the sails and fix the riggings and set out before the rest of the village was awake. 

“When we were younger,” Sokka begins, drawing words up from somewhere behind his chest, spinning them in the air with no way of knowing where they’ll lead, “in the South, I used to look at the ocean and imagine just… nothing beyond it. I knew there were the other nations, I just- I couldn’t picture them. To me, it was just ocean past the horizon until infinity. And now… it’s a little weird looking out to sea and knowing exactly how long it will take and what direction to go in to get somewhere. It makes the world seem smaller, I think, to know that it’s all cramped with nations instead of just our tribe floating out in the middle of the ocean.” 

Katara listens and ruminates on Sokka’s musings for a moment, her breath mirroring the steady roll of the waves. “You’ve been acting strangely,” she says eventually. 

For a moment Sokka thinks his embarrassing crush on Zuko has been found out, that Katara’s going to, who knows, talk him out of it or talk him into it or offer a nice Water Tribe girl for him to marry like Gran-Gran would. But he isn’t about to perjure himself, so he says, “strange how?”

“I’m not sure,” Katara answers. She looks out at the water and chews the inside of her cheeks. It’s a habit they share, with twin lines of scar tissue running across the insides of their mouths. “You’re… contemplative,” she says slowly. “Quiet isn’t the right word- subdued?”

“I’m dying, Katara,” he reminds her. His voice is soft enough that it’s nearly swept away by the rush of the waves, but she hears him. 

He is dying. It can be easy to forget, because Sokka tries his hardest to make it so. He smiles, he jokes, he doesn’t complain. He remains unchanged, so that when his time comes- someday- they will be saying goodbye to the Sokka they know, not some new, unknown person, made different by the experience. 

“That’s not what I mean,” she says. “You know that.” 

He does. A gentle wind blows in from the harbor, sending loose hairs floating at random around Katara’s head, a brown halo of flyaways. Two children crouch behind a large barrel of something, either fish or alcohol, and point excitedly at a pelicangoose that’s waddled onto the pier. Their mother finds them and drags them both away as the pelicangoose picks at its feathers, unaware of its admirers. “I feel like.. my life is going to be over soon, and I feel like so much of my adulthood has been spent completely adrift. I feel like I never really knew where I was going and now- now I never will.”

Another swift breeze blows past them, leaving a chill in its wake and the strong and familiar scent of salt water and dead fish. “Do you think any of us do?” Katara asks. Sokka doesn’t respond. “With the way we grew up, the way we lived- there was no way we were going to just miraculously turn out to be satisfied, well-adjusted members of society. You don’t end a war at fourteen and then suddenly know exactly what to do with your life and how to do it. We’re all just as lost as you are, Sokka. We just might not show it.” He doesn’t know if he believes her. A young couple passes them, dressed in the browns and whites that are fashionable nowadays in Republic City, a statement on the dissolving barriers between nations. One of them whispers something and the other one laughs wildly. Katara takes a sharp breath and continues. “You know, Bumi hasn’t shown any signs of bending ability yet?” She’s still looking out at the water, so she doesn’t see the surprise on Sokka’s face. “Aang is the last airbender and I’m the last waterbender of the Southern Water Tribe and we have legacies to pass on, and Aang is terrified that the kids- if I’m being honest, I feel sorry for them already. They’re going to have that burden, that obligation of continuing our legacy from the moment they’re born. Bumi’s just a kid, Sokka, he shouldn’t be worried about single-handedly saving the airbenders from extinction. I feel so damn guilty but I don’t know how to change it, and I don’t know if I can.” She finally turns and meets Sokka’s eyes, taking his hand in her own. “I want you to believe me when I say none of us have things figured out either. Everyone is flying blind, some of us just hide it better than others.”

Sokka knows he should say something, but he’s not sure what. He doesn’t know what Katara wants to hear. At last he opens his mouth and what comes out is, “I don’t remember what it felt like to fall in love with Suki.” 

Katara frowns. Clearly, whatever answer she wanted, that wasn’t it. “And you don’t want to die without remembering what that love felt like?”

“No- I, well- no.” Sokka grapples to arrange his thoughts into something that could pass for a sentence. It’s near impossible, translating his mind into words. “I… I like knowing things. I like making plans, grounding them in facts. And if I might do something, I need… to know.”

“I don’t understand.” Katara turns to Sokka, brow furrowed. “What might you do? Do you still- do you still love Suki?” 

Sokka can’t help the laugh that escapes him, however small. “No, I promise. We both moved on a long time ago.” Katara looks like she’s about to say she still doesn’t understand, and Sokka gets it, he’s being frustratingly vague, so he pushes past it. “You got together with Aang right after the war ended. And I was with Suki, so we never had to do the whole dating thing, you know? So I- I don’t know. Now, if- _if_ I wanted to do something, I’d hardly even know where to start.” 

Katara nods excruciatingly slowly. “Oh.” She looks back out towards the water, and Sokka suddenly regrets divulging this much. He doesn’t want to talk to his sister about his love life, he didn’t want that to be where this conversation went, and now they’re in the thick of it and Katara will give some hackneyed speech about being himself and following his heart and Sokka doesn’t want that, he doesn’t want to follow his heart, because it turns out his heart has terrible timing and problematic international politics. “Sokka-”

“I really ought to get back to work,” he interrupts, standing quickly. His cane, which was leaning against the bench, falls to the ground. Both he and Katara look at it blankly, as if expecting the other to get it, but eventually the person without a baby the size of a melon attached to their stomach loses and Sokka kneels down to pick it up. “Thank you for bringing me out here, really. It was nice to get some fresh air.”

Katara stands too and holds out a hand, though Sokka’s not sure for what. “I can walk you back, if you like.” 

“It’s not a long walk,” Sokka says. “I promise not to trip and die on the way there.” It’s a joke in poor taste, but Katara’s lips quirk nonetheless. 

“Alright, you big dummy. Go back to your important work.” Sokka slings his free arm around her in a rough approximation of a hug and begins the walk back into the city, but not before Katara calls to his retreating back, “and don’t think you were being slick! We will have this conversation if it kills you, lover boy!” 

He’s sure they will.

Sokka walks alone to the Council building, streets devoid of crowds like during the day. The sun is completely gone, having set slowly, unnoticeably, during their conversation. On a weekend, the city would be alive with excitement, the kind of bustling energy Sokka has spent his whole life chasing. But it’s just any other day, and the streets are quiet.

Sokka is greeted at the door of the Council building by an eager young aide from the North named Ukiuk who grabs him by the arms and exclaims, “Siluk won the election!” 

Ukiuk was on Siluk’s campaign team and was probably more excited for the election than the actual candidates. So Sokka laughs a little and says, “when did the votes come in?” 

“They finished counting them a few minutes ago,” he says, a little breathless. “I was going to find you.” 

“Well, here I am.” Sokka taps his fingernails against his cane, a habit he’s only picked up recently. “I guess I’ve got to prepare a speech, huh.” They had chosen Sokka, a long time ago, to be the one to deliver the news to the public. He’s universally adored, though it feels awfully pretentious to say so. He’s the dying Councilman, the one who makes jokes during press conferences and lets kids hold his cane and pretend it’s a sword. No matter the winner, Sokka can be counted on to make a speech and win over the public; that was their thinking. It’s been a long time since Sokka would panic and trip over his words during speeches. He’s grown out of that. 

“You can do it,” Ukiuk says, ever the optimist, and claps Sokka on the shoulder before disappearing into someone else’s office. Always busy. He reminds Sokka of himself, back in the day, back when Republic City was a seed dream of Aang and Zuko’s. When Sokka had to wine and dine Earth Kingdom royalty to convince them to give up tracts of land for a modern, unified city. It sounded like a fantasy back then, and sometimes it still does. Sometimes Sokka sees folks in Water Tribe blues and Fire Nation reds walking side by side and he wants to cry. 

Sokka pushes on down the hall, takes a seat at his too-familiar desk, and begins to draft a victory speech. 

~

The next day, hundreds of people gather in the plaza outside of the Council building. Sokka watches them from his office window as they arrive in droves, abandoning their jobs and families to come hear the results of the election. He tips his head back against the wall. His heart palpitates, the kind of nervous fluttering before any kind of public event like this. It’s a big responsibility, being the person to introduce the first president of Republic City. 

Leaning against the opposite wall, Zuko sighs. “Sokka, if you keep doing that you’re going to drive yourself crazy.” 

Sokka frowns and doesn’t tear his gaze from the plaza. “Doing what?”

“Just- waiting. Sitting there and dreading your speech.” Zuko walks forward and pulls the curtain across the window, forcing Sokka’s attention. “We still have an hour before the ceremony starts, and you can’t just panic the entire time. Get some work done, or read a book, or meditate like Aang,” he points to the avatar, sitting cross-legged in the hall. “Just do something.”

Sokka tilts back in his chair, thinking. Zuko stands before his desk, awkwardly angled from where Sokka sits. “Can I braid your hair?” He asks. 

Zuko looks surprised for a moment, jaw tight, before softening. “Sure. Just put it back into the topknot before we leave for the ceremony.” 

“Will do, boss,” Sokka says with a grin, and moves a stack of papers from his desk, patting the wood with the palm of his hand. “Sit.”

Zuko’s hair is soft, and Sokka cards his fingers through it like he has a million times with his sister. It’s a familiar motion, parting the hair and weaving the strands and keeping it smooth, no scraggly flyaways to be seen. Zuko sits ramrod straight on the desk, and Sokka has to reach his arms up to get to his head. Outside, the crowd noise ebbs and flows like the tides, but it’s quiet in Sokka’s little office, just distant voices and Zuko’s soft breathing. 

Sokka might love him, and he might never have the opportunity to be with him, but it’s worth it to have these moments, these intimate portraits of tenderness that Sokka doesn’t dare tamper with. It’s a deep ache, love, that settles between his lungs, but it doesn’t bother him, not at all. He lets the feeling spread like an invasive weed, like the poison in his veins, lets it make its way up his throat like he’s drowning in it. 

The trouble with wanting, Sokka figures, is that sometimes wanting is so much more intense than having, and it’s impossible to know whether the having will make up for losing that all-consuming want.

Sokka weaves Zuko’s hair like his mother’s blankets, like his father’s boat riggings, like the purest form of love he’s ever known. The hour moves quickly, in the arms of that lethargic sense of peace, and Sokka breaks apart the braids with his fingers, easy and quick like feet sinking in the sand. He puts Zuko’s hair up into its peremptory Fire Nation topknot and leaves one little braid, hidden in the thicket of black hair, as his own little rebellion. As his own little show of affection. 

Zuko rises and rolls his neck, cracks his back, and offers a hand to help Sokka up. Aang rouses from his meditation and together they walk down to the grand steps in front the Council building, dear friends and three of the most powerful people in the world. 

The crowd has only grown exponentially since the last time Sokka saw it. Every person in Republic City is out mingling in the plaza, it seems. Sokka feels that familiar sense of panic bloom in his throat, but he swallows it down when Zuko claps a hand on his shoulder, kind and reassuring, before taking a seat by Aang for the ceremony. 

A podium stands at the top of the steps, and Sokka makes his way towards it. He stands there, before the vast expanse of the city, and tries to feel the cool wood under his hands. 

With a deep breath, he begins. 

“Citizens of Republic City, we have arrived at an extraordinarily special day.” The din of the assembly dies out almost instantaneously as Sokka speaks. “My name is Councilman Sokka, for anyone new in town-” a vague laugh comes up from the audience, perfect- “and I stand before you today not as the humble civil servant you all know and love but as a nothing more than a member of this wonderful city. Just like many of you, I hail from the Southern Water Tribe. Like many of you, I get irrationally angry when people in front of me walk slower than I want. And like many of you, I cast a vote yesterday to elect Republic City’s first president. I want to impress upon you all the importance of this day. You, me, all of us, we are a part of history in the making. In this unique city we stand united, and we break barriers and undo centuries of the rhetoric that drove us apart every day as we go about our lives without a care for the nation our neighbors came from. And together, as one marvelous city, we each voted for a man to represent us, and that vote has reached a conclusion.” 

The crowd sits in a hushed anticipation. “If I may,” Sokka continues, stepping out from behind his podium, heart pounding in his ears, “I would like to break from the scheduled speech for a moment. Because not only is this speech, in which I will reveal the name of the president, extremely important to our city and our world, but this speech is deeply important to me as well. My friends, family, neighbors… this is the last speech I will give you as a Republic City Councilman. As I’m sure many of you know, my health is suffering. I wish to live out the remainder of my time with all of you in peace, and I am stepping down from my position as soon as this speech is over. It has been a joy and honor to serve this wonderful city, and I hope the people I see before me today will be the kind of people who will inhabit Republic City hundreds of years from now. Thank you for everything you have given me, both during my time serving on the Council and every day as I walk through these streets. I can never thank you enough.” The audience is nearly statuesque, quiet enough to hear squirrelmouse scurrying a mile away. “And now, with that short interlude completed, it is my great honor to announce the first president of Republic City, President Siluk!”

The sheer explosion of noise hits Sokka like an enormous wave, cheers and hollers and applause. He steps away from the podium and takes his seat next to the other Council members as President Siluk takes to the stage, waving at the crowd with that winsome smile that got him elected. 

From a few seats down from Sokka, Aang leans forward and gives him a look that seems to communicate, ‘what was that?’ Beside him, Zuko stares resolutely ahead, stony and blank-faced. 

The ceremony passes without calamity, and Sokka’s a little ashamed to say he finds it pretty boring. Siluk has a good speech, full of thanks and promises, and then it’s just endless prattle by various politicians, platitudes and hollow expressions of honor. Aang and Zuko give a short speech about the legacy of Republic City that’s sweet, but doesn’t necessarily leave Sokka thinking. Sokka can’t help but notice how the crowd thins after Siluk speaks, and he wishes he could leave with the rest of them. 

After the ceremony, Zuko catches him in the hallway; literally, he grabs Sokka’s arm and almost sends him toppling to the floor. That’s the problem with the cane, for all that it’s supposed to help with walking, it really screws with his balance. 

“Hey,” Sokka says, once he’s sure they’re out of earshot of anyone who would take offense with greeting the Firelord with a simple ‘hey.’

“You’re stepping down?” Zuko asks in lieu of a greeting. 

Sokka shifts his stance, loosens his grip on the cane. Zuko watches his fingers move. “Yeah. I’ve been thinking about it for a while, actually. If I’m dying-” the ‘if’ is more a force of habit than anything, they’ve long come to terms with the inevitability of it all- “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life working. I deserve a vacation!” 

Zuko doesn’t react to Sokka’s attempt at lightening the conversation. “Does anyone else know?”

“Well, now the whole city does,” Sokka quips. “But yeah, I worked with the Northern Councilman to line up a replacement for me. I like her, she’s spunky. She’ll be good for the position.”

Zuko’s brows furrow. He looks mad, somehow, and Sokka can’t fathom why. “And you didn’t- you can’t just-“

“Yes, I can.” Sokka frowns. “And I thought you might be supportive of me wanting to spend my remaining time with my friends, rather than cooped up in my office.” 

“Politics don’t just _stop_ because you decide-“ Sokka lifts one eyebrow, a tactic he learned from his sister, and Zuko sighs and runs a hand over his face. “I’m sorry. I- yes, I support you. I’m just… worried. So much is happening right now, and without you…”

“Things will be fine without me,” Sokka reassures him. “I’ll have to introduce you to the woman taking my place. I think you’ll really like her.” 

“That’s not the point,” Zuko grouses. 

Sokka scoffs in disbelief. “Ok, then I’m lost. It seems like we’re talking about two different things here, man.”

Zuko sighs again, heavy and dramatic, and leans against the wall. He takes a few beats, eyes closed, forehead wrinkled in thought. Eventually, he looks at Sokka with an expression of absolute despair. “Did you know they’re pushing for an arranged marriage?”

Sokka doesn’t need to ask for context; this has been a point of contention between Zuko and his countless advisors for years as he grows older and his romantic life remains woefully barren. His first reaction is to be pissed- Zuko’s own troublesome love life is no reason to take out his frustrations on Sokka, especially now when he needs support more than ever. But it’s Zuko, and he could get mad and say that he’s being inconsiderate again, but he knows it wasn’t intentional. He knows the urge to lash out is something Zuko will be working on for the rest of his life, and Sokka only has limited time with him. He doesn’t want to waste it being mad about something that Zuko will inevitably beat himself up about anyway. So instead, Sokka frowns and says, “You’ve always known this would happen.”

Zuko nods slowly. “Yes, but…” he gnaws at his lip. “They seem urgent about it this time. And I know, I know I’m getting older and I need to pass on the bloodline, but I just- I’ve never wanted it this way. I accepted it, but I never _wanted_ it.” 

“Then don’t,” Sokka says. He leans against the opposite wall and they watch each other across the hallway. “They can’t force you to marry against your will. You’re the Firelord, you outrank all of them. You’ll find someone, Zuko, I know it. You’ll find some lovely woman and have little royal firebending babies and you’ll raise them a hell of a lot better than Ozai did with you. It’s all going to work out.” 

Whatever is growing inside Sokka, these painful and wonderful feelings, twist with each word. But he believes them; he knows Zuko will find love and live the life they all dream of. He’s endured too much to not deserve that. But Zuko shakes his head, and the pressure in his throat lets up a little in anticipation. “I don’t-” Zuko’s words come in stops and starts, like even he doesn’t know what to say- “I don’t _want_ some lovely woman. And I certainly don’t want one someone else finds for me.” 

The little forest in Sokka’s chest, the vines that creep outwards and engulf him in passion, blooms and thrives like spring has come early. “I don’t understand,” he says, gently, nervously. 

“I’m going to have an arranged marriage,” Zuko says calmly, as if laying out the facts before himself. “And I know that, because I don’t think I’ll ever find a lovely woman to settle down with. I haven’t yet, I don’t think I’ll ever truly fall in love with someone like that. I’m going to have an arranged marriage because I need to carry on the bloodline.” He looks down and nods, coming to some kind of conclusion that Sokka’s not privy to. “But it scares me, it being so soon. Because once I’m in that marriage I know I won’t ever love her, so when I get married I know I’ll have missed that opportunity to truly fall in love.” 

Sokka waits for a moment, expecting Zuko to continue, but he doesn’t. “I don’t get it,” he says, after the delay goes on for too long. “Why couldn’t you love her?” 

Zuko huffs a little laugh and looks up. “I think you know why, Sokka.” His gaze makes those vines under Sokka’s skin writhe and twist. The way he says Sokka’s name makes it sound like a poem. An elegy, maybe. 

And Sokka thinks he does know why, but he doesn’t dare hope. So instead, he says, “don’t get married. Not if you don’t want to. If it won’t make you happy, don’t let anyone force you to do it. Find someone that does make you happy and spend the rest of your life with them, and if they can’t give you babies so be it. Set Azula up with someone, or let the bloodline die out for all I care. But be happy, Zuko. Let yourself be with whoever makes you happy.”

Zuko smiles with his eyes, not his mouth. For the longest time Sokka thought Zuko just never smiled, but he was wrong; he just never looked closely enough. Now, with Zuko fixing that bright gaze on him, Sokka feels awash in a soft sort of joy. “That’s what I’m trying to do,” he murmurs. 

From somewhere inside the Council building, Sokka can hear Katara call for them both. They walk down the hallway, past offices Sokka won’t see again, and meet her on the steps, where she gives Sokka a hug and congratulates him on his speech and tells him to make sure to visit his poor old sister while he’s off in retirement. 

He can’t stop thinking about Zuko, about what he said. Because even if Zuko takes it to heart, he’s not going to follow Sokka’s advice. He’s going to trap himself in a loveless marriage and make himself miserable under the guise of duty and it’s all Sokka can do not to scream at him, ‘it’s me! Spend the rest of your life with me!’ 

But. Sokka is dying and Zuko has to carry on the family name, so all they can do is exchange odd glances, each trying to puzzle out what’s going on in the other’s mind. 

Sokka finds Siluk and congratulates him heartily, and they both exchange regrets of not being able to work together. But it’s a new day in Republic City, and as Sokka walks home he tips his head up to the sun and imagines what it would be like to be a firebender, to soak up energy from Agni, and he pretends he can feel it. 

Maybe he’s in love. Maybe Zuko has layers that Sokka still hasn’t examined. Maybe, just maybe, everything will work itself out, under the watchful eye of some kind spirit. 

~

Bumi’s birthday comes at the beginning of winter, or what passes for winter in Republic City. Sokka waits at the harbor for Appa to grab him and Toph and bring them over to Air Temple Island for the celebration, watching the people that pass, swaddled in their jackets and ostentatious wool hats. It snowed the night before, just a little sprinkling, enough to coat the ground in a crystalline white powder. He misses the snowstorms back home, the ever-present layer of ice beneath his feet, the whiteout days spent inside, keeping fires blazing and patching long-overdue rips on coats and gloves. But he’ll take this early December frost if it’s what he can get, reveling in the way his breath curls out from his mouth like a smokestack on an old Fire Nation ship. 

Toph likes to pretend the cold doesn’t bother her, but Sokka watches her shiver out of the corner of his eye and drapes his scarf over her shoulders. She says nothing, but pulls it tight around her neck. 

Finally they spot Appa coming across the water, Aang a bright orange speck on his back. They greet each other with quick hugs and an even quicker mount on Appa, eager to join the festivities. Aang babbles about Bumi the entirety of the (thankfully) short ride in the way only proud parents can. 

When they land on the island, Bumi, who was deep in what looks like some bizarre childish monologue, runs away from Katara and towards Appa and launches himself at Sokka’s legs. “Happy birthday, Uncle Sokka,” he mumbles into Sokka’s knees. 

“It’s _your_ birthday, little man,” Sokka corrects, ruffling Bumi’s hair. Toph adds to the hair messying, and Bumi fumbles to smooth his hair down. “Where’s your mom?”

He points with one chubby finger. “She’s making food.” 

Sokka chooses to interpret that by making his way to the kitchen, where, true to Bumi’s directions, Katara is standing at the stove lazily stirring a large pot. He loiters in the doorway, drinking in the scene. The warm glow from the oil lamp on the table, the gentle heat from the fire, the spicy, fishy smell from the stove. Katara, a mother, cooking for her friends like she used to during the war, pregnant and content. “You can come in,” she says, lifting her spoon from the pot and using one finger to swipe a bit of sauce from the back of the spoon, tasting it and humming in approval. 

“Whatcha making?” Sokka greets. 

“Hello to you too,” she teases. “It’s the soup mom used to make for special occasions.” 

Sokka remembers the soup vividly. Full of tender fish and aromatic spices, a rare treat due to the infrequent trade to the Southern Water Tribe. When their mom died, Katara had learned to replicate it from taste and memory alone. 

“I’m really proud of you, you know that?” 

Katara’s hand, still casually stirring the soup, falters in its rhythm. She turns to Sokka, an incredulous sort of surprise on her face. “Well, thank you. Any particular reason why?”

“No particular reason,” Sokka says honestly. He leans against a cabinet, and from inside he catches a dim whiff of dried spices and herbs. “You’ve always made me proud. You’ve always been able to do things I never have. I really admire your willpower.” 

“Sokka…” Katara’s eyes shine, most likely with tears. With one hand still on the spoon, she holds out an arm and Sokka accepts the embrace. Her hair smells spicy from the cooking. “You make me proud too, Sokka. I love you so much.”

Sokka hugs her tighter. This could be the last time he holds her, he thinks. He makes it count. “I love you too.”

Bumi’s birthday celebration is a quaint, cozy thing. They sit around a low table on cushions hand-embroidered by the Air Acolytes and laugh. It feels almost just as much an occasion for the adults as it does for Bumi, and Sokka is overcome by love for his little family. 

It almost feels wrong to be giving gifts in the small gathering space on Air Temple Island, almost like avatar Yangchen is watching over their shoulders and shaking her head in disapproval. So Bumi’s gifts are meaningful and useful; a new jacket, a book of plays that Zuko read as a kid, a little wooden flute that Sokka already knows will drive Katara insane. They eat Katara’s soup and it’s just as good as it was when their mom made it, maybe even better. 

After dinner comes dessert, and Katara, Aang, and Suki disappear into the kitchen to make it. Zuko, not wanting to feel like a burden, cleans up after the meal, passing dripping dishes to Toph, who lazily dries them. 

Bumi’s sitting by the fire, staring in wonder at the embossed cover of his new book. Sokka takes a seat beside him, right in the ash of the hearth. Bumi opens the book and points at the title of one of the plays, _The Peasant Princess_. “What’s this one about?” He asks.

“That’s a good one,” Sokka muses. “I saw it with Zuko on Ember Island a long time ago. It’s about a woman who has a child but dies when it’s born, so she writes a letter to her daughter about how she was born special and chosen, and then the daughter grows up to be a great warrior and leader and honored poet and all that cool stuff. And at the end-” he stops himself. “I won’t spoil the twist for you.”

“No, tell me!” Bumi begs.

“Then it won’t be a twist,” Sokka argues, and makes a big show of clamping his mouth shut. In his head, though, he can hear Zuko’s voice clear as day, as if they were together in that dark theater box again, saying, ‘ _the point is that she wasn’t born special at all. It was that letter that made her believe she was destined for greatness_.’

“I wish I was special,” Bumi says.

“Hey,” Sokka nudges Bumi’s little shoulder with his own. “You’re very special.”

“Then why don’t I have a letter?” Bumi retorts, just to be contrary. 

Sokka laughs. “Because your mom is one room over, little man. I can call her in here and she can tell you herself that you’re special.”

Bumi pouts playfully. “It’s not the same.” But he’s only six (six! It still astounds Sokka), so he immediately perks up. “I want to go to Ember Island for my next birthday and see a play!”

“That sounds like lots of fun,” Sokka says with a grin. 

Bumi smiles wide, thrilled with the approval and the exciting idea. “Will you come to my birthday party on Ember Island?”

And just like that, the air goes cold. The room seems suddenly devoid of warmth, despite the merry fire burning behind them. Sokka feels his heart sink down into his gut. How is he supposed to explain to his six-year-old nephew that he won’t be able to come to his next birthday party because he’ll be long dead? How is he supposed to explain the concept of mortality, and the fact that the new spectre of death that will haunt Bumi for the rest of his life like it does everyone is coming for his uncle first? That Sokka, who has always been there and always should, will soon be lying at the bottom of the Southern ocean, stiff and cold. “I probably won’t be around for it,” he says gently. 

“So you won’t come?” Bumi frowns. 

Sokka wants to kick himself. He should have lied, he should have told Bumi that he’ll definitely go to Ember Island with him. What he would give to do that, to sit in a box with his friends and try to tune out Zuko’s grumblings about ‘acting choices’ and ‘poor interpretation.’ But he can’t bring himself to make a promise that he can’t keep. “Life is unpredictable, little man. I don’t know what it’ll look like a year from now,” he says eventually. “But we’ll see.”

“Oh.” Bumi opens up his book again, tracing an illustration of the Blue Spirit with one chubby finger. 

Sokka watches this. He’s so young, he thinks. Sokka was a fool to think that after the war he would never have to watch another child lose someone unjustly; that’s simply not the way the world works. People are cruelly played by fate, Water Tribe and Fire Nation, young and old. And Sokka will be a part of it all, another name in the long list of obituaries in the back of the Republic City paper. “Hey,” he says. “Want to learn how to throw a boomerang?”

Bumi’s face lights up. “Really?”

“Yeah, really.” Sokka can’t help but laugh a little at his unguarded look of pure joy. “Come on, get your coat. I’ll teach you outside.”

They find themselves in the middle of the large grassy area that the Air Acolytes use for meditation and other various Air Acolyte-y activities. Bumi’s practically vibrating in his brand new winter coat, a deep blue with delicate embroidery around the hems, courtesy of Katara. A legacy of the Southern Water Tribe. “I’ll demonstrate first,” he says, pulling out the blue boomerang he’s had for years. They never were able to recover his original that he had lost at the end of the war, but his new one is almost as good. It’s comforting, the familiar grip, the weight of it in his hand. The wind is coming from the right, so Sokka shifts his stance and throws, watching it spin off into the distance. Like clockwork it comes whirling back, and Sokka reaches to catch it with practiced ease. Bumi laughs gleefully. 

“Show me how!” He begs. He reminds Sokka of himself, in that little blue fur-lined coat and the reckless eagerness to learn. 

“Alright,” Sokka says, and hands Bumi his boomerang; it’s nearly half the size of him. Ideally, he’d have his own child-sized one, and maybe Sokka will have to get him one as a late birthday present, but Sokka’s sure that the challenge will build character. “You’re going to hold it like this-“ he places it into Bumi’s waiting hand. “Yeah, that side against your palm. Rest your thumb on the other side, don’t wrap it around. Perfect. So you’re going to want to hold it out, like so-“ Sokka demonstrates and Bumi mirrors him, his arm slightly dipping under the weight of the boomerang, “and when I tell you to, you’re going to throw it. You’re going to want to get it to spin, okay? That’s the magic of it. It’s not about muscle, it’s about the spin.” Bumi, bless his heart, frantically nods along. “I want you to aim for the top of that tree over there, see it? You don’t want it to go too high or too low, or you won’t be able to catch it. So aim for that tree. And never catch it if it’s going too fast. If it’s coming at you too fast, try and get out of the way. It’s better for it to miss than for you to get brained, you hear?” 

Bumi nods earnestly. “Alright, little man,” Sokka says. “You ready?”

If Bumi nods any more, Sokka’s worried that his head will come right off. He has a feeling Katara wouldn’t like that very much. “On the count of three. One, two… three!” 

Bumi lets the boomerang go and for one breathless moment it makes a perfect track out towards that tree, and Sokka worries that he might be usurped as the boomerang king by a six-year-old. But then the wind takes mercy on his pride and the boomerang’s arc warps, sending it careening off into the bushes. 

Bumi looks bummed. “You did great!” Sokka tells him, completely honestly. “I definitely didn’t start out that well when I was your age. And hey, at least it didn’t land in the water.”

“Mom could’ve gotten it out,” he points out, and Sokka considers this.

“Very good point.” 

Bumi goes running off in the direction of where the boomerang had landed, and Sokka takes the opportunity to lean on his cane, a small moment of reprieve for his aching legs. They feel like he ran a marathon, the muscles sore and uncooperative. Bumi must not be lucky with his search, because Sokka watches as he rustles around in the bushes for a solid minute or two. He would help, but he doubts he’d be of much assistance. 

“Sokka?” Comes Aang's voice from behind him. “Have you seen Bumi?” 

“Yeah,” Sokka answers, pointing. “He’s in the bushes.”

Aang is silent for a second. “Why is he in the bushes?” 

“I tried to teach him how to throw a boomerang, and it landed somewhere over there. He’s looking.”

“Oh,” says Aang, and Sokka’s glad it’s not Katara out there with him, because she’d definitely have a few choice words about teaching her son how to throw a boomerang. “Well, tell him to come in when he finds it. We’re going to have cake.”

Bumi comes barreling out of the bushes only a few minutes later and deposits the boomerang in Sokka’s waiting hands. He latches his little arms around Sokka’s legs. “Will you teach me again sometime?” 

“Absolutely,” Sokka says wholeheartedly. “I’m going to make you a master.”

He watches as Bumi runs into the main building where the rest of his family waits with that seemingly endless reserve of energy hidden somewhere in children’s little bodies. Sokka wishes he could be a kid again, even if just to get back that bottomless energy, the ability to bounce back from anything.

They eat some more and laugh some more, and by the end of the day Sokka is full of food and a warm kind of joy. It’s dark and cold when Sokka is preparing to leave, so when Zuko offers to walk him home it’s like the sun coming up. 

They dismount Appa at the harbor and Toph takes off immediately, navigating purely through muscle memory, her bending obscured by the thick shoes necessary in the snow. Sokka lingers by the water, feeling the heat emanate from Zuko’s body. They stand in silence, staring out at the sea, the black waves that roll towards the shore, frothy and musty-smelling. Zuko’s hair is down and it moves almost imperceptibly in the ocean wind. 

But soon Zuko starts to shiver, so they begin their walk back. Streetlamps in Republic City are sparse still, endless flames burning away in their little glass cabins at intersections and in front of important buildings. Most of the light comes from the windows of apartment buildings, and as they walk Sokka watches as they flicker out one by one. The moon shines brightly above them, and Sokka sends a silent thanks to Yue. He always does. 

“Can I ask you something?” Zuko says at last. 

Sokka feels his pulse quicken. “Of course,” he answers. 

Zuko is quiet for a moment, and all that can be heard on the silent streets is the muffled sounds of conversation from the apartments above them and the clipped crunching of Sokka’s cane on the snow. “Were you serious, when you said I shouldn’t marry?”

He sounds nervous. Sokka can’t fathom why. “I was absolutely serious,” he says. “You shouldn’t get married if you don’t want to.” 

Zuko frowns. “Yes, but I-”

“Everyone deserves a choice,” Sokka continues. “Even you. If you’re this broken up about getting married, I know for a fact that you shouldn’t do it. It’s not fair to you, and it’s not fair to your future wife.”

They come to Sokka’s building and loiter outside the door. Zuko keeps shivering. “I want love, Sokka.” He looks down at his hands, long and thin, and picks at the skin around his nails. “I really do. Just… not the way they think I do.” 

Sokka understands, he understands on a bone-deep level. Because he wants love too, he wants it more than anything. He would give the world to feel love the way he did back when he was with Suki, when everything was brighter in her presence. And now, in this bizarre in-between with Zuko, he feels love, but not like that. He feels it in his chest, like a pressure, he feels the warmth that Zuko radiates against his skin. But spirits, what he would give to love and be loved the way he is in his dreams. 

Zuko huffs out a little sigh, his breath like a curl of smoke, and looks at Sokka head-on. Sokka’s heart stutters. “If I tell you something, will you promise…”

He trails off. Zuko’s eyes bounce around as he scrambles for words. “Of course,” Sokka says for the second time that night. 

Zuko stands there with his mouth open, breathing shakily, as if trying to gather courage for something great. Sokka doesn’t push him to continue. He waits. It’s not cold to Sokka but it’s cold to Zuko, who was born for warmer climates, so when Zuko’s teeth start to chatter Sokka offers, “why don’t you stay the night.”

“Yeah,” Zuko nods, looking relieved. “Thank you.”

“Anything,” Sokka says absently, and together they climb the stairs up to Sokka’s apartment. 

They move in tandem, in the cool air of the apartment, almost as if they’ve done this a million times before. Zuko lights the fire and Sokka prepares the bed that he had left unmade that morning, and when Zuko says softly, “I was going to take the couch,” Sokka shakes his head.

“Absolutely not,” he declares. “We’ve done it once, we’ll do it again. And besides, you’re so warm, man. This is as much hospitality as it is pure selfishness.”

And Zuko looks at him in that unfathomable way again, like Sokka has individually placed every star in the sky. They drink tea shoulder to shoulder in Sokka’s little kitchen, and it makes Zuko yawn. “Go to bed,” Sokka urges him. “Don’t stay up for me.” Zuko nods sleepily and traces his finger around the rim of his teacup and Sokka is reminded of Bumi looking dejectedly at his little book of plays, wishing for a letter. “I’ll join you in a bit,” he says, “I have something to do first.”

Zuko gently squeezes Sokka’s forearm as he leaves for the bedroom, and Sokka thanks the spirits that Zuko’s thumb didn’t skate across his wrist, where his pulse beats like a tattoo against his skin. 

Sokka takes a seat at his desk, the one facing the window, where he can look out over the city, and chooses a piece of crisp white paper, still embossed with his title from his days as a Councilman. It wasn’t that long ago, he reminds himself. A week and a half. 

_Dear Bumi_ , he begins.

_You may not know this, because we’ve tried our very best to keep it from you, but I’m dying. When you read this, I might already be dead. Don’t worry, though. I’m happy, and I miss you. Take your Uncle Zuko to Ember Island for your birthday, okay? He knows the place better than I do, and he knows more about theatre than I ever will. (Here’s a little tip: if you ever need to fall asleep, ask him about the history of theatre costumes. You’ll be out like a light.) When you feel ready, ask your mom to buy you a boomerang. You’ve got a knack for it, kid. If he’s still around, try and find a man in the South named Nanook. He taught me when I was your age, and he’s one of the best men I’ve had the pleasure of meeting. There are lots of things I want to do with you that I probably never will, and I can’t help but mourn that loss. But if I may, allow me to let you in on a little bit of advice._

_You have a little sibling on the way. I hope you’re excited. You have a duty to protect them, to always be by their side. I have with your mother, as siblings have since the dawn of time. However, you are more than what you can do for others. You are a whole human outside of those under your protection. Don’t take on more than your share, Bumi. As an older sibling, I know how it is. And I know that your life will be more complicated than your peers’ because of your lineage. But promise me you won’t martyr yourself. I lost some of the best years of my life to war, and it took me a long time to get out of that mindset. You don’t always have to give yourself the least of parts._

_I know you haven’t shown any inclinations of bending ability yet, and maybe that will change. After all, you only turned six today. Your own mother didn’t start bending until she was seven and a half. But if you grow up a nonbender like your dear Uncle Sokka, I want you to take to heart the fact that you are no lesser than anyone else. Your ability comes from your dedication, your moral compass, and your passion, not some fancy element magic gifted to you at birth. And if you do become a bender, don’t let that innate ability carry you through life. You must work for your achievements, but never let anyone tell you that your worth is based on some arbitrary talent. It’s not._

_I love you, little man. You will do great things in your life, I just know it, and I wish I was around to see it. Treat yourself with the utmost respect and drink in the beauty of the world around you at every possible moment. Life can be wonderful if you make it so, no matter what outside influence may attempt._

_Your favorite uncle,  
Sokka._

He sets down his pen with a satisfied sigh. It feels good, a sort of catharsis, to get his feelings out on paper. 

Outside his window, a couple walks down the street, arm in arm, bobbing and weaving on the sidewalk, drunkenly giggling into each other’s necks. 

And in a rare moment of absolute clarity, Sokka picks up his pen and drafts a letter to Zuko. 

It’s messy and imperfect and far from a final draft, but Sokka is happy when he folds up the letter and tucks it deep in the recesses of his desk drawer. He stands, douses the fire until only glowing embers remain, and walks quietly into the bedroom. He had hoped to not wake Zuko, but when he climbs into bed Zuko murmurs, “hello, Sokka,” and Sokka is overcome with such love for him that it hurts. 

Zuko must still be half asleep because he immediately wraps his arms around Sokka’s waist, pulling them close. Sokka relishes in the warmth that Zuko gives off and the vague smell he always carries with him, ink and freshly extinguished candles. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he whispers back.

“It’s alright,” Zuko says easily, burying his face in Sokka’s shoulder. “Now we can fall asleep together.” 

They lie like that for a long time, wrapped in each other’s embrace, just breathing and thinking and trying to escape into dreams. “Do you remember when we saw _The Peasant Princess_ on Ember Island a couple years ago?” Sokka asks at last. Zuko answers with a noncommittal hum. “Tell me about their costumes.”

And maybe Sokka lied a little bit to Bumi, because any other person would immediately pass out once Zuko began his monologue, but Sokka stays awake, eyelids heavy, listening to the gentle rasp of Zuko’s voice, the way it slips from speaking to whispering as he tries not to disrupt the quiet of the evening. He feels calm, being held like this, with Zuko’s words drifting in and out of his head. He wonders absently what it was that Zuko had wanted to tell him on the stairs, barely an hour ago. It seems like worlds away from where they are now, trapped in a sweet limbo between waking and dreaming. Sokka might be desperately in love and he doesn’t know how much longer he’ll hold out on his secret, how much longer it’ll remain unsullied, locked away in his mind. Once it’s out, it’s anyone’s game; free to manipulate for political gain or sleazy news stories or free to spit on in rejection. Here, kept safe beneath Sokka’s skin, it’s a pure kind of adoration, and it blooms under this perfect intimacy they’ve achieved here in Sokka’s bed, innocent and soft and washed in Zuko’s stream of consciousness. 

When Sokka wakes in the scant, early hours of morning, he and Zuko are still entwined as one great, four-legged humanoid. He watches as Zuko snores, waits for the first inklings of dawn. 

For the first time in a long time he doesn’t feel sick, or poisoned, or tired. 

He just feels madly, helplessly happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> on a scale of betrayed to flwogb how mad are you that they aren't together yet  
> anyway IM SORRY THIS IS LATE i am physically unable to budget time and i've gone deep into a fantasy high rabbit hole  
> it's fucking snowing rn and it was 70 the other day i hate march

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO HELLO  
> If you are reading this you're my new favorite person
> 
> before we get into the good stuff, some housekeeping:  
> \- this story is set between atla and tlok (i fudged with the timeline a bit, don't look too hard into it) i'm basing it roughly in the 1870s (not that important but i wanted to tell you so you don't come for me when aang sends a telegram)  
> \- the characters are in their early-mid 30s  
> \- i am White and i do not know much about the asian and indigenous cultures atla draws inspiration from so if i make any mistakes or do anything not good PLEASE TELL ME!! it's not my goal to offend or play into stereotypes, if i do something wrong pls let me know and i will fix it right away  
> \- as of right now i don't have a posting schedule i have four chapters written already, but it takes me about a month to write a chapter, so... enjoy the ride?
> 
> ok with all that out of the way thank you for reading  
> please leave a comment it makes the little mouse who runs my brain do a little happy jig :)


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